


Falling

by blackkat



Series: Falling [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Humor, Happy Ending, M/M, Remy's accent hates me, Slow Build, The one where Harry falls through time, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i>
<br/><b>Disclaimer</b>
<br/></i>
<br/><i>: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway. </i></p></blockquote>





	1. Of Whens

Harry had been drifting for a long while now, though he could never be sure of exactly _how_ long it was. Tumbling freely through the time stream had distorted his sense of periods, of length and breadth and moments. It was rather like Apparition gone awry, he sometimes thought, but instead of _wheres_ , he was whirled through _whens_ , cast from one time period to another in the blink of an eye.

It had been a long time, he knew, since he had stayed in any one _when_ for more than a few days consecutively, and even longer since he had been in his own _when_ , but it was a small price to pay for killing Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries, three days after his eighteenth birthday. That had something to do with his new ability, if he remembered correctly. The events were hazy, as though the memory was seen from a great distance of time and space, but he could recall falling backwards into a cabinet as Voldemort collapsed in a lifeless heap, could recall the sharp sting of thin glass breaking as the Ministry's collection of time-turners once again shattered under his weight.

When he thought back on it, and tried to understand what had happened—not that he did that much anymore, since he had grown strangely accustomed to this odd way of living—Harry supposed that some part of the time-turners, the glass or the sand or maybe even both, had reacted with his blood or his magic or the Deathly Hallows and sent him spinning out of his own time and into another.

And then another, and another, and another, until he had lost all sense of _where_ , and the only thing that mattered was the _when_.

It was, in all actuality, not a terrible way to live.

The anger he had felt growing ever since his fifth year was gone, like a bad nightmare banished by the dawn. He was resigned to this constant tumbling, though _resigned_ didn't quite encompass his strange feelings of relief and _rightness_ in living untouched by time. At one time in his life, he might have fought against it, tried to find some way to undo what had been done, but his purpose had been finished. Voldemort was defeated, the majority of those who had helped him had survived, and he held all three Hallows, despite his attempt to lose them after the disastrous Battle of Hogwarts. The Hallows had chosen a master, it seemed, and wouldn't let him give them up. Fawkes had brought him the Elder Wand two weeks after the Battle, and one of the centaurs had delivered the Resurrection Stone a few days later, murmuring something about restless ghosts and Mars soon reaching its brightest point.

Harry, having grown to respect such vague warnings after several years of friendship with Luna, had accepted the ring, and it now hung on a chain around his neck. There was little temptation to use it anymore. Having been cut off from his world had made the happenings of his entire former life feel oddly dreamlike, and he decided that it was better that way—far, far better than the tearing grief he had felt after the Battle, or the determined hopelessness he had felt going into the Ministry for the final encounter. Being cast out of time cut him off from all of that—not just the good, such as his friends and his people, but also from the bad, the pressure and the expectations and the set beliefs that everyone there ( _then_ ) had held about him.

Freefalling in such a way was far from an unpleasant sensation.

* * *

This _when_ was a very nice one, Harry thought, observing the boisterous, half-drunk crowd ebbing in and out of the bar like a tide of humanity. He was seated at one end of the bar, a drink at his elbow to keep the bartender happy, and was content to watch the other patrons in the small New Orleans bar. Several poker games were going on, and one in particular held his attention, because one of the men playing—the one who was always winning, he noted with amusement—was a mutant.

It wasn't _all_ power that was letting him win, Harry acknowledged, watching his fingers flicker over the cards and his easy smile captivate and dazzle his companions. It was partly him, too, in addition to a few handy tricks and the ability to charm the other players. He was simply _good_. Handsome, too, with his auburn hair and hazel eyes, and an enchanting grin that was full of equal parts devilish wickedness and boyish delight as he cleaned out his opponents with good-natured ease. Harry chuckled softly as he watched, amazed that, even after losing their entire paychecks to him, the others at the table just laughed it off and shook their heads, as though they were used to it. Maybe they were. Harry hadn't been in this _when_ very long—a few hours at most—so he couldn't judge if this was a ritual to those involved or not.

Finally, though, he dragged his eyes away from the handsome stranger and back to the rest of the bar, because his observations would be rather limited if kept to only one man. But, somehow, everyone else seemed dull and uninteresting in comparison. The big man at the door—a bouncer, Harry guessed—was in the process of wrestling a pair of troublemakers out into the street. The bartender was shaking his head, and caught Harry's sympathetic gaze. His answering smile was aggrieved and weary, and Harry could all but hear his sigh. Harry had worked as a bartender, at some point, in some _when_ that had held on to him for several months instead of several days, as most did. He understood the irritation.

Then a hand was on Harry's shoulder, unexpected and startling, and he stiffened. Every instinct was clamoring throw of the grip, to fight back, but he managed to hold himself—and Kingsley's hand-to-hand lessons—in check as he glanced up at the person holding him.

As his eyes settled on the stranger, his breath caught softly in his throat. It was the man from before, the poker player, looking at him as though he was a winning hand in a high-stakes game. That devilish smile tipped one corner of his mouth up as he slid into the seat next to Harry, tipping his fedora back at a rakish angle.

"'Evenin', _petit_ ," he offered, voice thick with the lazy Southern drawl that still sounded utterly foreign to Harry's ears. "Lookin' lonesome, sittin' 'ere by yaself. A pretty girl be leavin' ya, _mon cher_?"

Harry offered an easy smile in return, and shook his head. "Not quite. I was just…watching."

The man's grin was unrepentantly mischievous. "Be seein' anytin' ya like, _mon ami_?"

"Maybe." Harry gave him an amused glance and took another sip of his drink. It burned his throat on the way down, but left him feeling vaguely warm, and he smiled again. "That's an interesting talent you have. Is it just for cards?"

With a soft chuckle, the stranger picked up Harry's hand and drew his fingers over the skin. Red sparks skittered away from the touch, and Harry gasped, body tensing as a tingle raced up him arm. The man's smile was well pleased. " _Non_ , _mon ami_. Not jus' cards."

Harry laughed, trying to control his suddenly racing heart—but he didn't reclaim his hand, and the stranger didn't relinquish it. It was heady, this interaction, intoxicating to feel such a strong, instantaneous connection after having spent so long divorced from everything. "Harry Potter," he offered, catching those warm hazel eyes. "A traveler."

The man winked and raised Harry's captured hand to his lips, feathering a kiss over the back of it. "Charmed, _mon ami_. Dis one be Gambit—or Remy, if ya be likin' dat better. Welcome, den, ta de Big Easy."

"Thank you, Remy." Harry held up his glass as though to offer a toast, and chuckled when Remy plucked it from his fingers and stole a sip. "Are you always this friendly to strangers?"

"Ah, only when de're as pretty as you, _mon petit_ ," Remy assured him with a quick wink. "Ya be havin' a place to stay alrea'y, or can Remy offer his bed fo' ya ta sleep in?"

Harry chuckled, charmed by his boldness. He was lonely, no matter how much he had come to enjoy falling through time, and the idea of a night of simple companionship, easy company with a handsome man, was more than enough to sway him. "Just to sleep? Are you sure?"

"Oh, Remy's sure we can come up wit' sometin' else ta do." The man rose smoothly to his feet, tugging Harry up as well with the grip he still had on the green-eyed man's hand. His grin was roguish. "Maybe some dancin' of de horizontal kind, hm, _mon chèri_?"

As Remy drew them both out of the bar and into the crowded street, Harry twined their fingers together and squeezed gently. In his blood, something throbbed, a gentle heat and pressure. It was almost as though the shards of the Time Turner were finally settling in his veins, no longer flowing freely but sinking into his muscle and granting him the tiniest bit more control.

"Dancing," he echoed with a thoughtful smile, knowing that _here_ and _now_ was exactly where he was meant to be. He turned his smile on Remy, and let the other man pull him close as he murmured, "Dancing sounds…just right."

The kiss they shared, half-hidden in the shadows and half-drenched with the dusky brilliance of streetlamps, tasted of bourbon and spices and simmered with heat that rose up like a phoenix's flame, leaving something new in its wake.

* * *


	2. Of Whens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

When Harry woke, he was alone in bed, the blanket pooling around his waist and sunlight spilling over the floor. Slowly, he rolled over and pushed himself upright, wincing at the soreness in his lower body, and looked around.

It was a one-room apartment, small and neat. A disgustingly dressed, awake Remy stood at the tiny stove, humming to himself as he cooked, and Harry smiled, letting his body fall boneless back to the soft mattress. The world felt strangely brighter, as though the sun had come out from behind a veil of clouds, or a light had been switched on in a dark room, and his heart was utterly at peace. The tiny, nagging worry that had always haunted him, no matter where or when he was, had vanished in the face of this utter contentment.

Harry closed his eyes and simply _basked_.

It had been so long since he had felt _good_ , since he had woken up with a smile. While drifting was not objectionable in any way, it was not perfect, either. He had never had a home, never had a real family except for Hermione and Ron—and Ron, too, was only a "sometimes" friend, phasing in and out of best friend status whenever he got angry—and freefalling through the ages was hardly a way to gain one.

But here, now, in this brief span where and when he could just _exist_ , it almost felt like he had.

The mattress dipped slightly, and a shadow fell over him, smelling of beignets and warm powdered sugar, chicory coffee and the faint hint of male musk. Remy chuckled and leaned down, kissing him softly. Harry responded, lips just as soft and sweet as the other man's. "Gonna lie abed all day, _mon chèri_? 'Cause der be a few tings Remy's no' adverse ta tryin', if ya ain't be feelin' too sore."

"Mmm." Harry tilted his head back and smiled at the Cajun, green eyes half-lidded and languid, not objecting to the idea in the slightest. "I thought you were going to show me the city today?"

"Big city, _mon ami_. Ya can't see it by stayin' der, hm? Get up! Remy made breakfast." He slithered off the bed, grinning at Harry's soft, plaintive groan, and padded into the kitchen area.

Harry sighed and sat up, sliding his legs off the bed and stretching lazily as he stood up. He debated clothes for a moment, and then decided that, no matter how awake and dressed Remy was, he didn't have to copy him. Instead, he settled for tugging Remy's large shirt over his head and piling his own clothes to the side. The two of them had gotten a little enthusiastic last night, and his shirt needed to be repaired before he could wear it again.

"'Arry, _mon ami_ , ya can' jus' go walking aroun' like dat," Remy groaned, setting two plates on the table. "We gotta leave de house _sometime_."

Harry just gave him his most innocent smile, sliding into one of the chairs and hiding his wince. The Resurrection Stone swung on its chain, bumping against his collarbone, and he stilled it with a touch as he picked up his fork. The bacon was perfectly crispy, the eggs were fluffy, and the beignets were still warm. He hummed in approval as he ate, savoring the taste before he opened his eyes and smiled up at the Cajun. "Wonderful. Thank you, Remy." He licked a bit of powdered sugar off his lip and went back to eating.

Remy chuckled, watching him with carefully controlled desire and a little bit of awe as he started on his own breakfast. "So, _mon chèri_ , what was de mos' beautiful man in New Awlins doin' by 'imself in a bar, watchin' de card sharps? No' dat Remy be complanin', min' you. Be ya lookin' fo' mutants, or jus' de company?"

Harry fiddled with his fork for a moment, considering his answer. It would be easy to say that he had only been looking for a mutant, had wanted to take one to bed to satisfy some strange sort of curiosity. It happened, he was sure, because humans were perverse in their curiosity like that. Such a thing would be a good excuse for leaving now, not getting any more attached than he already was, because he already knew that his time in this place would be brief. But, somehow, Harry couldn't force the words past his lips. With a small sigh, he set his fork down and looked at the man who had become his…lover, now, he supposed.

"At first, neither. I wasn't going to take you up on your offer, either" he offered softly, watching the emotions swim through Remy's eyes—puzzlement, then a trace of hurt, then a mix of confusion and surprise as Harry murmured, "And then it was only supposed to be one night, but…"

As he fell silent, a small smile flickered over Remy's face, and he reached across the table to take Harry's smaller hand in one of his. "But now, _mon chèri_? Did sometin' change?"

 _Me_ , Harry wanted to say. _I changed_. _For the first time, I want to_ stay.

Instead, he just smiled quietly and twined their fingers together. Remy's smile widened, and he passed Harry a mug of strong chicory coffee.

"We be wantin' ta see de Quar'er today, den, _mon ami_?" he asked cheerfully, and the world fell into place.

* * *

It was very, very easy to love Remy, Harry was coming to realize. He was kind, and sweet, and thoughtful, and romantic, and he laughed often and from the heart. It didn't matter that he was a mutant—Harry almost preferred it that way, because it made his own oddness easier to explain away—and it didn't matter that he woke up four nights out of five in a cold sweat, nightmares leaving him shaken and withdrawn.

Harry had dreams like those himself.

For once, there was no time pulling at him, urging him to get ready for another period of freefall, and Harry was content to enjoy however long the universe gave him with this handsome, charming man. He didn't allow himself to look to the future, only to enjoy the now, because now was all he had, all he had ever had. The future was frightening, but the present, wrapped firmly in Remy's arms or standing firmly by Remy's side, was enough to keep him grounded.

Remy was comfort, and Remy was kind, and that was all Harry needed in this wonderful, homey, heartening "now."

They lived together in the tiny apartment, and Harry had never encountered a place that felt so _right_. Not even the Burrow could compare, and Remy made it all the more welcoming. Together, they cooked and ate and slept and lounged, talking about everything but their pasts and discussing everything except their futures. They didn't need the pain and uncertainty of either, not when faced with the solid certainty of each other.

Usually, at night, Harry would go with Remy whenever he went to play cards at one of the bars he frequented, and though many of the regular players joked about Remy having caught "another one," and made bets on how long Harry would last, they seemed more or less accepting of the wizard's presence. There was some tension in the rest of the city, mutants being targeted by humans or humans being targeted by mutants, but Remy kept them well away from any areas with trouble, and they stuck to places where they were well-known and familiar, and where Remy knew all the escape routes he could ever need.

Harry never asked about Remy's powers, because he knew that the story behind them was most likely what gave Remy his nightmares, and Remy seemed content to puzzle Harry's abilities out on his own, though Harry made sure to use magic only when he absolutely had to. Still, he saw the sidelong glances Remy gave him whenever he said something even vaguely prophetic—his quick glimpses of the when-to-come were a side effect of having Time Turners in his blood, he was sure—and was surprised that the Cajun's curiosity held as long as it did.

They were in bed when the question finally came, Remy lounging among the tangled sheets, propped up on one elbow to watch Harry. The wizard sat on the edge of the mattress, braiding his hair back from his face. He hadn't cut it since he had first started drifting in time. It was long now, manageable, and Remy loved to watch as Harry braided it, his fingers deft and quick. As his gaze lingered on the nimble hands, his hazel eyes glittered with suppressed heat, and he smiled.

"Like lightnin' in a bell jar," he murmured, reaching out to ghost his fingertips over Harry's bare flank. "Beautiful and wild, sittin' in de palm a' Remy's hand. Keep wonderin' why ya don' shock me, darlin'."

Harry cast him an amused smile, gentle and fond, as he bound his braid with a silver ribbon. "Shock you? I could. How should I? Do you want me to tell you something startling? Something you'd never expect?"

The hazel eyes were strangely serious as Remy pulled him down onto the mattress, to lie facing him. "Ya could tell 'bout how ya knew de club would go up in flames las' nigh'. Or how ya be knowin' tings before dey happen. Be ya a mutant, _mon chèri_? But why ya be sayin' notin'? Remy'd never look down on ya fer dat!"

Harry sighed softly, closing his eyes for a brief second. It was easier to be a mutant here, in this when and this where, because the magical community in America seemed to consist of a handful of Pagan crafters and little else. Mutants were more widely known, more widely accepted, and Harry knew that he could fit in easily enough. He didn't use magic much anymore, regardless, because the Elder Wand was too powerful for everyday things. Even when he did need it, as long as it was on his person, there was no need to hold it in his hand to perform spells. In many ways, he _was_ a mutant.

He certainly wasn't just a wizard anymore, that much was certain.

"Yes," he said softly. "I just…I'm not comfortable with it, that's all. I knew you wouldn't mind me not saying anything right away."

Remy chuckled and pulled him close, tucking the smaller man under his chin and holding him tightly. "Never, _mon amour_. Ya be Remy's now, and 'e don' min' one bit."

Harry's attention and breath caught on that last endearment, and he looked at Remy with wide, startled eyes. " _Amour_? You—"

" _Oui, je t'aime_ ," Remy murmured, and leaned in to press a kiss to Harry's lips, as soft and delicate as a butterfly's wing.

Harry smiled at him, and it was full of everything he had never thought he would feel as he leaned closer, resting his forehead against Remy's, and whispered, " _Moi aussi, je t'aime_."

And, once more for good measure, "I love you, too, Remy. Now and forever."

No matter how long that forever was.

* * *


	3. Of Homes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

"Pick a name, _mon ami_ ," Remy warned, "or Remy be pickin' one fo' ya, an' ya won' have a say in it."

Harry rolled his eyes and kept his attention on the book in his hands. "Remy, I'm hardly powerful enough to need a name. I fail to see the point."

The Cajun just chuckled. "Den Remy be callin' ya Seer."

Making a face, Harry quickly shook his head. "Too awkward. Try again." He also wasn't a seer, really, not the way that Professor Trelawney—or even Luna, to a lesser degree—had been (were? Were going to be? He didn't know the date, and tenses were so fluid that he was never certain which to use), but he wasn't about to say that out loud. It would raise far too many awkward questions.

"Delphi?"

"Do I look like a madwoman to you? That fails on two counts. Next."

"Foreteller? Foreseer?"

"Ugly and ungainly." Harry looked over the top of his book and coolly raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to tell me something, Remy darling?"

Remy just snorted. " _Mon chèri_ , it's no' dat har'. Pick a name, and den when Gambit go huntin', 'e won' be alone." He crouched down in front of Harry's chair, eyes pleading. "Please, _mon amour_? Do it fo' Remy?"

A month and a half together, and he already knew how to manipulate Harry into just about anything. With a sigh, Harry dropped his book and closed his eyes, considering. _Wizard_ was too obvious, and none of its synonyms appealed to him. Remy's idea, even though he was reluctant to admit it, was probably the best suggestion, and close enough to an actual ability to be fitting. Opening his eyes, Harry raised an eyebrow at the expectant Remy and offered, "Oracle?"

Remy grinned, plucking the book from Harry's loose grip and setting it carefully aside—he had learned the hard way that Harry was incredibly protective of his books. Then, gently, he took Harry's hands and raised them to his lips, kissing them in quick succession. "Gambit and Oracle it be, den—toge'er."

Heart clenching, Harry slowly slid out of his chair, going to his knees in front of the Cajun. His hands rose to frame Remy's face, and, with a smile, he leaned forward and kissed him softly. Harry knew he couldn't promise forever without breaking his word, but he would gladly give Remy everything else.

"Yes," he answered.

* * *

Harry was overwhelmed by just how much he loved the city, and the people, and _Remy_ , and how he couldn't imagine ever being anywhere else.

But someday, he knew, he would have to go somewhere else.

Already, he could feel the faint stirrings of unease that always preceded a freefall, as though the Time Turners in his blood had begun to shift and move in preparation of spinning. For the first time in a long, long while, Harry felt frightened—of the Time Turners and the inevitable fall, and of Remy's reaction when he _did_ leave. Even if, somehow, he landed in a "when" where Remy was still alive, would the Cajun still want him? Would he be able to forgive Harry for leaving in such a way, so sudden and stark? Would he have moved on already?

There could be no warning, Harry knew. He couldn't say anything, both for fear of bringing up his wizarding past and because Remy would try to do something to stop the freefall. Harry had already tried everything, back when he first started drifting, and knew that there was no way to so much as delay the Time Turners. He went wherever they took him, and as much as the stubborn Gryffindor he had buried deep inside himself chafed at that, there was nothing to be done. When the time came, he would leave, and Remy would be alone, and _he_ would be alone, and he would have to spend the rest of eternity freefalling through time, _knowing_ what could have been, but unable to go back to it.

He loved Remy with a physical ache, a throbbing in his heart that grew with every moment they spent together. No one had ever inspired such emotions before, or made him think of _forever_ the way Remy did, and Harry knew that it would kill something inside of him to lose that, to lose _Remy_.

Moonlight poured over the room, elegantly cold and somehow achingly lonely. Curled on the window seat, Harry sighed and rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window itself, closing his eyes against the depression that surged like a rising tide in his gut. Behind him, on the bed, Remi slept. For once, it was a peaceful sleep, without nightmares to disturb it, and as much as Harry wanted to go and curl up next to him, snuggle into his embrace and bask in his warmth, he knew Remy would wake up if he so much as rose from his seat, and Remy needed whatever peaceful sleep he could get. He'd wait, then. Just a little longer.

A flutter of wings drew his attention back to the view outside as a bat flickered past, there and gone in an instant. _Like me_ , Harry acknowledged, and would have laughed if it hadn't been so utterly dismal a thought.

The soft rustling of blankets moving roused him, and he looked back at the bed to see Remy watching him, hazel eyes solemn. Harry blinked and sat up straighter, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Oh. Remy. I'm sorry, did I wake you?" Even if he hadn't made noise, it was possible. Remy woke up if someone was _thinking_ too hard.

Remy shook his head, smiling faintly as his gaze traced over Harry's moon-drenched form. He held out a hand. "Come ta bed, _mon amour_. It's ei'er way too early or way too late fo' lookin' dat serious."

Obediently, Harry slid off the cushioned seat and took the outstretched hand, allowing Remy to pull him down onto the bed. With a grin, Remy wrapped his arms around Harry's shoulders and rolled so that he was on the bottom, staring up into golden-brown eyes that flared with sudden, smoldering heat.

"How long ya been up fo', _chèri_?" he asked, his voice growing deeper and huskier, and Harry shivered at the sound of it.

Pupils dilating, Harry cleared his throat. "A few hours," he whispered, and the words were hard to get out. "I couldn't sleep, and then you just looked so peaceful—"

Remy's wandering fingers cut off the question, and Harry moaned into his mouth as their lips met. Harry fought another shiver, feeling the linger wetness inside him from their last round, and how his body became so soft and pliant under the Cajun's hands. _Greedy, greedy, greedy_ , something inside him taunted. _Wanting him, possessing him, taking advantage of man you know you'll have to leave behind. How could you?_

 _I love him_ , was all Harry could think in response. _He's my everything._

Harry stared up into the hazel eyes that held so much warmth and adoration, so much emotion that he couldn't believe was directed at _him_. Remy was the enigmatic thief, who had overcome banishment and fear and hatred and _thrived_ on the opposition. And he had chosen _Harry_ , out of all the people in the world.

Harry wasn't under any misconceptions about himself; he knew how he looked and how powerful he was, but he also knew his shortcomings. He had a temper, though it was slow to rise these days, he didn't know when to stop, and he threw himself headlong into suicidal situations that seemed unwinnable. Why anyone would waste time trying to understand him, trying to _love_ him, was something he couldn't comprehend. Especially since Remy was probably the only one who had ever seen him as he actually was—someone young, with a power than they still couldn't understand, who needed help and companionship no matter how well he seemed to do living a solitary, quiet life.

That, more than anything else, was precious.

Remy hitched one of Harry's legs up, pulling it around his hip, and they slid together with an ease that Harry still found somewhat ridiculous, even after all this time. How could any two people be as perfect for each other as they were? It defied all probability, all reason and logic. Nevertheless, he was incredibly grateful for it, for this man who was so warm and kind and wonderful, who kissed him like breathing and filled him perfectly. He gasped out a word that might have been _Remy_ or might have been _more_ or even _move_ , and arched up as Remy did so, sliding slick and easy so deep inside him.

It wasn't storybook perfect—Harry was still sore from earlier, and Remy was still a little too sleep-dazed for it to be incredibly romantic, and they were both too eager (as they almost always were, it seemed) for it to last very long between them. Still, it was _them,_ and Harry hardly needed to touch himself before he was coming, back arching and eyes fluttering shut, Remy's name tumbling into the overheated air between them like a prayer. With a groan, Remy came as well, slumping over him and gasping for breath, muscles quivering in the aftermath.

After a few moments of being crushed into the mattress, Harry wriggled out from under the heavier Cajun and snorted softly at the dead weight that had previously been his lover, shoving Remy to one side and curling up against him with a contented sigh. He flicked a tired glance at the clock and nearly winced.

"Late," he muttered.

Remy chuckled and attempted a leer, but it was too exhausted to do much but fall short. "Or early, dependin' on which side a' de clock you're lookin' on, _mon chèri_." He tucked Harry closer to his side and buried his nose in the wizard's hair. "Can ya sleep now, or does Remy be needin' ta tire ya out some more?"

Sleepy emerald eyes fluttered open, and Harry smiled at him in return, just slightly—neither of them was much for smiles, really, right now. Then he buried his face in the curve of Remy's shoulder and mumbled, "Night, Remy."

Sighing softly, Remy settled them deeper into the pillows and closed his eyes as well. "Nigh', _mon amour_. Sleep well, an' dream a' me."

Harry sighed, shoving down all of his worries and locking them away. Their time together was too precious to waste with misgivings and doubts.

Nevertheless, his skin prickled slightly, as if in foreboding, and he had to fight off a shiver of unease. Something was about to happen, and he couldn't tell if the outcome would be good or bad.

* * *


	4. Of Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

The stranger found them in the bar where they had first met. Remy was shuffling cards, flipping them hand to hand as the other men watched in eager, expectant amusement. Harry perched on his leg, one hand on the Cajun's shoulder to keep his balance as the cards flew. In the low light of the bar, reddish sparks followed Remy's fingers, though Harry was almost certain that the others missed them. While Remy never hid the fact that he was a mutant, he never paraded it in front of anyone, either.

Then, like static electricity condensing before a thunderstorm, the air in the room changed. It trembled and shivered, almost coming alive, and Harry stiffened slightly as the odd feeling raced over him. Remy never missed a beat, deck flashing from one hand to the other, but his wary eyes flickered over the room, even as a shadow fell over them.

"Are you Remy LeBeau?"

The voice was gruff and plain, the speaker not someone who sugarcoated his words or edged around subjects. Harry looked up, tracing obvious muscles and worn clothes, finding the faintest hint of dog tags beneath the man's shirt. He had an accent Harry wasn't familiar with, but as he moved Harry caught glimpses of cold snow and pine forests as the Time Turners shifted ever so slightly towards the past. There was something…wild about him that Harry wasn't used to, after so long with Remy, who kept his more violent nature hidden behind a façade of charm and good humor. This man didn't bother, though, and as the Time Turners shifted again, Harry caught a flash of steel that was too slender to be knives, too sharp to be anything harmless.

"Mutant," he breathed in warning, so soft that it was barely a word.

Remy flipped the cards into one hand and stilled, giving the stranger a sidelong glance. "Do ah owe ya money?"

The stranger blinked at that, and shifted, as though he couldn't decide whether to be amused or irritated. "No," he said shortly.

Carefully, Remy tilted his fedora back and grinned, even as his eyes scanned the man for any threats. "Den Remy LeBeau ah am." His eyes flickered to Harry, just a quick flash of brown slowly brightening to crimson, and Harry slipped off his lap to stand beside him, a hand on his shoulder. The stranger watched both of them warily, but his eyes lingered on Harry for a moment longer than they did on Remy.

Noticing, Remy leaned forward, recalling the man's attention, and smiled charmingly. "Now, ya ain't come all de way 'ere ta ask Remy 'is name. Ya be needin' sometin', _mon ami_?"

The Time Turners began to move more insistently, and Harry glimpsed the dark alley behind the bar, and the unknown black man who had slipped out as the first stranger confronted them. He frowned slightly, and concentrated on seeing further forward. There—the barest flash of claws and a bloody grin, a syringe and the unknown man staggering away from an equally bloody blow. It didn't feel like the past, and he straightened, tapping Remy gently on the shoulder.

Instantly, the conversation he had been ignoring paused, and the Cajun glanced up at him. "Sometin' wrong, _cher_?"

"I'll be back in a moment," Harry said, and though Remy obviously caught the non-answer, he nodded reluctantly and let it go. Harry did this whenever he caught sight of something that he could prevent, having retained the "saving-people complex" Hermione had attributed him with back in school.

"All right. Be safe, _mon amour_." He feathered a kiss over the back of Harry's hand and released him with a soft smile. Harry nodded briefly to the stranger, who was watching them with curious eyes, and stepped away, heading for the back door.

He opened the heavy wooden door just in time to catch the other stranger as he came flying backwards, knocking Harry into the jamb and winding him. Thankfully, after years of war, where a moment of hesitation meant the difference between escaping and catching a Killing Curse, Harry recovered quickly, and he shoved the other man behind him, facing the attacker.

A big man, he noted almost absently, assessing him as best he could in the dim light. He was the one Harry had seen earlier, with the claws and hungry smile, which turned on Harry, looking unsurprised at the interruption.

"Little boys shouldn't butt into games they aren't a part of," he growled, and his voice was even more gravelly than the first stranger's—more grating, too, as though his bloodlust was leaking out through his vocal cords. "Wraith and I are busy, so get yourself back inside, pretty."

Harry cast a glance at the nervous man behind him, and asked softly, "Wraith? A mutant, then?"

Wraith looked at him and nodded shortly. Harry smiled and turned his attention back to the attacker. "Those are some sharp claws you have," he said mildly, "and this part of the city is mostly friendly. Why don't you put them away and go home? Causing trouble would just be pointless."

The clawed man grunted out something that might have been a chuckle. "I've got orders, and Wraith's a part of them. Now step out of the way, or I'll deal with you, too."

The Elder Wand burned in its hiding place along the side of his leg, and Harry let his smile grow sharper, positioning himself more firmly in front of Wraith. Though the man behind him was muscled and obviously had training, he felt terrified to Harry's senses, and Harry didn't want to risk what he had seen coming true. He would have to end this quickly. Summoning up just enough power to cast a few basic spells, Harry held it ready, pooling in his hand.

"Please, do try," he invited.

The clawed man rushed forward in a blur of movement that Harry couldn't have avoided if he tried. He didn't try, though. He whispered a quick Shield Charm and shoved Wraith through the doorway, bracing himself as the attacker plowed into him. He snarled when his claws simply glanced off tried again, but Harry was already slipping out of the way, a silent Disillusionment Charm giving him enough time to put his back to a more secure area. The clawed man turned slowly, eyes narrowing as he scented the air.

"Another teleporter?" he mused, fingers flexing. Then he chuckled, eyes locking onto the place where Harry was. "Oh, I see. Just invisible. That's a handy trick. But that's not enough to fool Victor Creed." With another blur of limbs, he was in motion again, and it was all Harry could do to keep his attention on the Time Turners shifting through him, giving him just enough warning to avoid each powerful blow. He could already tell that he wasn't going to win.

But, of course, he wasn't trying to.

He took one more step back, and Creed lunged for him, claws outstretched. Harry ducked to the side, even as he slammed a foot into the man's side and helped him go shooting past. It gave him just enough time to turn and fire a Stunner, and Creed slammed into the alley wall, collapsing to the ground. Harry straightened, canceled the Disillusionment Charm, and steadied himself, then looked up to find Wraith watching him with surprise.

"Go," Harry ordered, trying to recover his breath. "He's after you, and I'd guess it's not for something good. Hide somewhere. Preferably far away. I'll let your friend know what happened."

After a brief moment of hesitation, Wraith nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, man. Tell Wolverine I'm sorry."

Harry nodded in agreement, and the man vanished with a crack, much like Disapparation. The sound called up old memories, and Harry smiled, turning to head back inside.

At that moment, the wall of the bar exploded out into the alley.

The wizard dove for cover, rolling and coming up at the edge of the door. He flattened himself behind the frame as the last of the debris clattered to the ground, and then risked a glance out. The first stranger—Wolverine, Wraith had called him—peeled himself off the far wall as Remy stalked out of the hole, _bo_ staff out and twirling.

"Ah don' know who sent ya, _mon ami_ ," he snarled, and it was so far from Remy's normal, drawling tone that Harry felt a shiver of unease run through him. "But ah ain't gonna go back der, and notin' can make me. De Island is a _bad_ place, an' ah sooner see de city burn den let ya capture me an' take me back."

Harry stilled. He knew about the Island, from what little Remy had told him, and knew that it was what usually featured in Remy's nightmares. He could understand the Cajun's refusal to even think about the place, but there was something… _off_ about all of this. And—

He glanced at where the clawed mutant lay, still Stunned, and cursed softly. _Orders_. He had been acting under orders to attack Wraith, Wolverine's companion. It stood to reason that they were working against Creed, who was taking orders from whoever ran the Island, and while that didn't guarantee them being on the same side, it increased the likelihood of it.

Even as Remy whirled forward, staff flying in a series of complicated motions, Harry stepped out of hiding and called softly, "Remy, stop."

The Cajun froze instantly, then ducked out of the way of Wolverine and darted back to Harry's side, dragging him towards the bar. "'Arry, _mon chèri_ , ge' back inside. Dis be over wit' shortly."

Planting his feet, Harry gently removed his arm from Remy's grasp. "No, Remy, he's telling the truth. He and his friend are working against the Island." He half-turned and looked at Wolverine. "Your friend was just attacked. By him." He motioned towards the downed mutant, and saw recognition and something like pained hate flicker in the dark eyes. "I managed to distract him and knock him out, and Wraith got away. He's in hiding, or he should be."

Remy hovered over his shoulder for a moment before sighing in defeat and stepping back. " _Mon chèri_ , since when ya star' pickin' fights wit' de bigger boys? Ain't anyone tol' ya dat ya cou' be hurt?"

Harry favored him with a soft smile, and touched his hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'm fine. Just a bit winded. Wolverine, you're determined to get to the Island, no matter what?"

Still watching Creed, Wolverine nodded. "Yeah. Stryker took something from me, and I want it back." Again, his eyes lingered on Harry, then on Remy, and Harry wondered at the strange tension he could feel between all three of them. It was almost like the feeling the Time Turners gave him, and he frowned slightly, filing it away to consider later.

A soft sigh came from behind him, and Remy settled a hand on Harry's shoulder, drawing him back into the firm warmth of his body. The Cajun rested his chin on Harry's shoulder and surveyed Wolverine with solemn eyes. "Ah be guessin' dat ya not be takin' no fo' an answer, _mon ami_. We 'n take ya to de edge a' de Island, but ah won' take _mon cher_ ta dat place, no' fo' all de money in de worl'. Ya'll be on ya own in dat hellhole, but Gambit an' Oracle will take ya der if ya still wanna go."

Harry cast a glance at the edge of the rubble pile from their fight, and saw that Creed had vanished. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced up towards the rooftop, where a bulky shadow was just disappearing into the night. The same unease that he had been feeling for the past two weeks rippled through him, but he tamped it down and looked back at Wolverine, who was staring at him with odd intensity.

"Lead on," he said gruffly, and finally turned away.

* * *


	5. Of Departures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

It didn't surprise Harry in the slightest, when Remy broke his own condition and landed the small plane near the island. He said nothing to dissuade the Cajun, either, and when he headed for the shore, Harry followed.

Wolverine lay on the beach, a rapidly healing bullet wound in his skull. When he opened his eyes, they held no trace of recognition, and for reasons unknown even to himself, Harry mourned the loss of that odd intensity. A bare edge of it still remained, a faint trace of some of that recognition, but it was not what it had been before.

"Come on, _mon ami_ ," Remy urged, all but dragging the bigger man up from the ground. "Army's gonna be 'ere soon, an' ah fo' one ain't gonna be waitin' fo' 'em."

Wolverine staggered to his feet, one hand rising to clutch at the dog tags around his neck in a motion that was nearly vulnerable. Even though he looked dazed and bewildered, he nodded, letting Harry and Remy help him stagger down to the water. Harry strapped him in while Remy ran a rapid preflight check, and then took off. The flight back was silent and tense, with Wolverine staring out the window at the ocean around them. While he didn't look exactly _lost_ , there was something disoriented about him, and Harry had to fist his hands in his lap to keep from pulling the large man close. But, even amnesiac, even uncertain, he was still too much like his namesake to accept comfort from someone he didn't know. He was still a gruff, scruffy wolverine, ready to bite at the first hand offered to him.

For lack of other options, hey took him home with them, but he only stayed a few hours before heading out with only a short, curt word of thanks. Harry stood in the doorway of their apartment and watched him go with a feeling very much like loss weighing heavily in his chest. There was no logic behind it, no explanation that could make sense, but Harry had learned on his eleventh birthday that not everything made sense, that not everything could be explained.

Magic couldn't.

Neither, he had found, could the human heart.

Remy joined him there, staring out at nothing, and wrapped strong arms around the wizard. He rested his chin on Harry's shoulder, hazel eyes contemplative. "Den ya fel' it, too, _mon cher_?"

Harry nodded, not having to ask what he meant. Remy was perceptive, and very good at picking up emotions, even those emotions that weren't completely realized.

"I did," he acknowledged softly. "But none of us are ready yet. Maybe someday…" His voice trailed off as the Time Turners shifted again, and he was given a glimpse of Remy wrapped in Wolverine's arms, staring out a wide window at a sun that was either rising or setting.

 _Oh,_ Harry thought, watching the two of them in the orange-gold light. _So that's how it's going to be._ A soft ache grew in his chest. The sight of them hurt, but Harry tried to push the nagging pain away, to put it aside, to feel only happiness that Remy wouldn't mourn him when he (was taken away) left.

It worked, but only barely.

Locking those emotions away, Harry gave a soft smile and stepped back into the apartment, holding out a hand to his lover. "Let's go to bed, Remy. We can talk about this tomorrow, okay?"

Remy still looked solemn, but he returned the smile and closed the apartment door, gathering Harry up in his arms again.

"Sure, _mon amour_ ," he agreed. "Let's go ta bed, den, hmm? Talk abou' de hard stuff in de mornin'."

Harry closed his eyes and pushed down the guilt that was building in his chest.

"Tomorrow," he affirmed, and wished it didn't sound quite so hollow.

* * *

The next time Harry woke, it was still dark, and the Time Turners were singing through his blood with a force that could only mean one thing.

Silently, he cast a sleeping spell on Remy and slid out of the Cajun's grip, untangling limbs and escaping the octopus-like cling that Remy always developed when he was sleeping. The lack of warmth was nearly painful, once he had, but the golden, pulsing song of the Time Turners didn't allow him any hesitation. Quickly, he flicked a glance around their tidy, one-room apartment—their _home_ —and realized that there was nothing here that he could conceivably take. Every last thing was inundated with memories, with emotions, but none of it was small enough, light enough, or replaceable enough for him to slip into a pocket to preserve his memories of their time together. Besides, he insisted to himself, it was foolish to want to take a keepsake, foolish and selfish. He shouldn't.

Nevertheless, his hand hesitated by the bedside table, and, almost without direction, picked up the pack of playing cards Remy had left there. They weren't his favorite cards, or even the ones he used most often, but they were still _Remy's_.

Harry held them for a moment, weighing his options. In the end, though he couldn't make himself leave them, and slipped them into his pocket. He had never told Remy anything about his freefalls through time, had never hinted anything that might give his secret away, because Remy would get over him. The future he had seen with Wolverine proved that. Remy would recover and be happy, and have someone to rely on. Harry, with Time Turners in his blood and a history drenched in darkness, could never be like that. He couldn't control his falls, and had never before managed to stay in one place longer than two months. Here, now, he had managed three times that, but never before had he felt the Time Turners react as strongly as they were now. Whatever he had landed here to do had been done, and now he was being taken away. It was more likely than not that he would never again return to this when or where.

As absolutely, incredibly, horribly ironic as it was, but he had no future.

After several minutes of internal debate, fighting the pull of his blood for each one of those seconds, Harry finally penned a short note and left it on the table, knowing that was where Remi would always look. He wished that it could be more, that _he_ could somehow be more, but it was the best he could currently do. There was no changing this, no stopping it, and he could no longer bring himself to try. That only led to heartbreak.

Even greater heartbreak, he acknowledged, stealing one last glance at the calm, relaxed face of his lover before he squared his shoulders and stepped out the door. As he did, the world shivered around him, changing subtly, and he looked down on a street that was lit by gas lamps, with men in elegant coats and tails escorting southern belles in jewel-bright gowns down the promenade.

Taking a deep breath, Harry fought against the tide of horrified sorrow that swamped him, the sudden absence of the Time Turners' burn leaving everything within him crying out for one person, left behind by the surge of magic through his veins.

But there was nothing to be done, not now, and he had long ago accepted his fate. Steeling himself, he transfigured his clothes into what one of the passing men had been wearing and strode down the stairs to join the city once more.

Deep inside, he would admit to himself, if no one else, that falling had never before been quite so hard.

* * *

For the first time in years, Remy woke slowly. As his mind gradually filtered back into awareness, he lay motionless for a moment, every sense alert for signs of danger, but there were none. The only difference from every other morning was that Harry's side of the bed was empty. There was none of the heaviness in his limbs that would come with being drugged, and he hadn't been hit in the head. But even so, he had been so deeply asleep that he hadn't woken when Harry had gotten up. That had never happened before, and Remy was far too paranoid—for good reason—to dismiss it out of hand.

Furthermore, the apartment was empty. Perhaps, on almost unheard-of occasions, he could sleep through Harry getting up. But to sleep through him getting dressed and going out?

Impossible.

Warily, Remy slid out of bed and dragged on the first pair of pants he could reach, then surveyed the room. Everything of Harry's was still in place, from the Charles Dickens books on the shelf to the scant few pairs of clothes in the drawers. Only the man himself was gone, and…

Remy's hand, automatically groping for the stack of cards he knew he had left beside the bed last night, encountered only empty air.

Panic began to build, a deep-seated unease that drove Remy to the kitchen, only to find that Harry's shoes were gone, but his jacket remained. And…

There was a small square of folded paper sitting on the kitchen table.

Remy refused to acknowledge that his hand shook as he reached out and picked up the note, carefully unfolding it. Harry's handwriting was distinctive, somewhere between elegant script and chicken scrawl, just toeing the line between the two distinctions. On the crisp, white paper, he had written twelve words.

 _Remy—_

 _I've run out of time. Be happy._

 _I love you._

— _Harry_

There could be no doubt that it was meant as a farewell.

Feeling numb, Remy staggered into one of the chairs— _Harry's chair_ , he noted, and for some reason that was desperately amusing—and sank down, still staring at the note. He wished that somehow, some way, he could change what was written there, erase each word's meaning and make it something different. But the words stayed the same, written in the green pen that had always made Harry smile, and Remy knew that there was no changing what had happened.

Harry had left.

No, Remy corrected, the words suddenly becoming sharper, clearer both in his mind and on the paper. He had been _forced_ to leave. Remy knew that he had kept secrets—they both had, because neither of them felt the need to burden the other with their problems. But _this_ secret was something he wished he had pried out of Harry anyway, regardless of privacy and politeness. Harry was _gone_ , and he more than likely wasn't going to some back on his own. Harry was impossibly stubborn about some things, and keeping Remy out of them because he thought the Cajun would get hurt seemed like the exact thing that he would do. Even if it meant breaking Remy's heart in the process, Harry would keep him safe.

"Oh, _cher_ ," he whispered to the empty apartment. "Remy be safe in _body_ , but what 'bout 'is _'eart_? Ah can' be whole wit'out ya, _mon amour_."

Only silence answered him, and Remy closed his eyes against it. This wasn't the end, he swore to himself. No matter where Harry had gone, or how long it took to get him back, Remy would do it.

 _I love you_.

He repeated those words to himself, over and over until they were carved into his heart, the same way Harry's hand had borne the words, _I must not tell lies._

They were vows, the both of them, and Remy swore that he would never break his, not for anything in this world or the next.

"Ah be findin' ya, 'Arry," he murmured, "an' den ya never be gettin' away again."

* * *


	6. Of NearMisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

Time held no meaning as he fell.

Harry had long ago abandoned the idea of time as everyone else knew it. For him, it was not a linear progression leading into the future, but a raging whirlpool than swept him off his feet and hurled him headlong into the maelstrom. He fell, and it caught him, and where he landed was either chance or divine choice or temporal choice, because he usually halfway suspected that the Time Turners were just as cognitive as he was. Maybe more so, sometimes.

After leaving Remy, the Time Turners—as though to make up for the six months they had allowed Harry before—whirled him through more ages than he could name, with only the briefest pauses in each one. He couldn't have said how long it took, or if it took any time at all, because he could never tell exactly. If he added up all the moments he had spent in different whens, it would come to a frighteningly long amount of time—hundreds of years? Thousands? Or was it maybe just a day, an hour?

He couldn't tell, but he missed Remy with all of his being, with every breath he took and every beat of his heart.

The cards stayed in his pocket, no matter when he was.

* * *

He didn't know why he chose Canada, in the end. Maybe it was because he remembered the glimpses of cold snow and pine forests he had see in Wolverine's past. Perhaps it was because the stark mountains and sweeping forests were about as far as he could get from the muggy, spicy heat of New Orleans. Either way, another shift of the Time Turners found Harry making his way through the deep snow that surrounded a small bar, inwardly laughing at the penchant he had for surrounding himself with drunk, uncouth, testosterone-filled males, even though that type had never interested him in the slightest.

There was an enclosed arena set up along the far wall, and two men were fighting within its confines. Harry shook his head in amusement— _What was it Hermione always said? Boys will be boys?_ —and headed for the bar, where a few men and several women were watching the fights from a safe distance. They looked at him as he approached, taking in the sight of a stranger, and one of the women nodded. As though it was a sign of universal acceptance, the others turned away, and Harry, with growing amusement, took a seat at the far end, by the wall. The bartender joined him after a moment, looking expectant.

"Whiskey," Harry said with a small smile. "Neat, please."

The man nodded and filled a tumbler, setting it down in front of him. He hesitated for a moment, and then said gruffly, "Passing through?"

Harry nodded, turning the glass in his hands. The amber liquid shimmered in the low light. "Wandering. Canada is large enough that I could keep it up for years and not see half of it." Not that the Time Turners would let him, he thought wistfully. He'd probably be gone before he got more than a few miles down the road, if the pattern of the past few falls held true.

The bartender grunted. "Trying to lose someone?"

"Not quite." Harry looked at his glass again, and took a small sip. He remembered another bar, in another time, when a charming Cajun had stolen his drink and flirted shamelessly, and couldn't help the small, sad smile that twisted his lips. "Lose memories, more like."

Another grunt, and the stocky man was turning away. "Good place for that, if you pay your tab." He didn't wait for an answer, but headed towards the other end of the bar, where a man who was obviously a regular was waving for a refill.

The wizard watched him go before turning back to his contemplation of the whiskey. _A good place for it_ —well, perhaps for others, but he had gone freefalling drunk once before, and never wanted to repeat the experience. He was also nearly certain that if he started drinking to numb his emotions, he would never stop. The temptation was overwhelming, but the thought that he would probably be a maudlin drunk—especially when he had so much to be maudlin about—kept him from giving in. His feelings were bad enough now. Amplified with drink, well…that was a terrifying thought, and kept him from imbibing.

Sighing, he dropped a few bills on the counter and left his half-finished drink next to them, then strode out the door and tumbled back into the time stream.

* * *

It could have been a thousand years later, or a day, when he ended up back at the same bar. There was a new bartender, or maybe it was the old one, only younger—Harry couldn't tell, and couldn't ask. Instead, he took the same seat he had last time, and ordered the same drink, and watched the crowd begin to swell as evening became night. Faintly, distantly, he heard a drawling voice murmur, " _Lookin' lonesome, sittin' 'ere by yaself. A pretty girl be leavin' ya, mon cher?_ " and he nearly looked around, seeking warm hazel eyes and a wicked grin.

But there was no grin, no bright, mischievous eyes—Remy wasn't there, and would never be, most likely.

The ache never faded, no matter how long he fell.

Off to the side, in the arena, people roared as another winner was announced, and Harry turned to look. He just managed to catch a glimpse of scruffy hair and dark, gruff eyes before he was falling again.

* * *

Another indefinite length of time later, a very weary Harry landed in Boston, outside of an old church that was closer to abandoned dilapidation than it was to being a stately relic of the past. Harry didn't mind the rough accommodations; he had gotten used to places very much worse over the course of his freefalling. With a soft sigh, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, immediately feeling better when he was out of sight. He had spent too long as a pseudo-mutant, forever wary of people's reactions or of being spotted doing anything odd, to feel comfortable out in the open. That was one of the reasons he didn't mind that the Time Turners swept him out of different whens so quickly—there was far less chance of being seen, and, in some times, reported to the government as a mutant.

Another reason he had stopped minding the sudden, frequent freefalls lay in the vague, uncertain feeling that he was _missing_ something, that there was something he was supposed to be doing that was just out of reach. Having learned, over the course of the war, to trust his instincts, Harry kept searching for whatever it was, never giving in to the temptation to surrender to the aching emptiness in his chest that grew whenever he thought about Remy or New Orleans. The constant itch the vague feeling brought with it was odd and unsettling, as though he was forever in the _wrong_ where, the wrong when, but he didn't know where the _right_ where or when was.

Shaking off the disquieting thoughts, Harry closed the heavy door and was immediately assaulted with a strange presence that washed over him like a gust of heated wind, smelling strangely of…brimstone? He frowned and raised his head, searching the rafters of the church even as he gathered enough power to cast a wandless stunner.

"I know you're there," he called softly. "Why don't you just come out?"

" _Raus…_ "

Harry cocked his head at the hoarse whisper, mentally translating the German. _Get out_ —or a rather more polite version. German, for all its guttural sounds, was a surprisingly civil language.

"I don't think I will," he responded gently. "I only need to spend a few nights here. I won't disturb you, as long as you don't disturb me."

" _Steigen Sie aus!_ " There was a sharp crack, almost like Apparition, and the smell of brimstone strengthened. Harry opened his senses, feeling the strange power the other gave off. It was nearly magic, but there was something different, almost twisted about it—not wrong, just strange. He frowned as he turned, following the stranger's jumps as well as he could.

" _Ich bin ein minion des Teufels!_ " the person—creature?—hissed.

Though that sound itself was a good bit demonic, Harry just rolled his eyes at the dramatics. "You're no more a minion of the devil than I am," he countered calmly. "I'm guessing you're a mutant, that's all."

Another sharp crack, and then a blue-skinned man was standing in front of him, yellow eyes wary. " _Wer sind Sie? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?_ "

Harry smiled at him and shook his head. He understood far better than he spoke. " _Ich spreche nur ein bisschen Deutsch. Englisch?_ "

"Yes, I speak it," the mutant answered, heavily accented. He wrapped his arms around himself, three-fingered hands grasping tightly at his ragged clothes. "Who are you? Vat do you vant?"

"Just a place to stay for a while," Harry repeated with a soft smile. "But if you're really uncomfortable with me here, I can find somewhere else."

The mutant shook his head. "No. Dis is a sanctuary of God. All are velcome. But…you are not a normal human? You do not care dat I am…?"

Harry shrugged and settled onto one of the remaining pews. "That would be rather hypocritical of me, wouldn't it? I'm Harry Potter, but…" He remembered a certain stubborn Cajun who wouldn't let the matter of a name drop, and chuckled softly. "But some people call me Oracle."

"Kurt Wagner, but I am called Nightcrawler." He took a seat on another pew, staring alternately at Harry and the dusty alter. "You are not scared? Of me? Even zough you look normal, and I am a monster?"

With a tired sigh, Harry closed his eyes. "Genetically, we're probably cousins, no matter how different we look. Neither of us is exactly human, but not _not_ human, either." He wondered, not for the first time, of the X-gene that was so controversial right now was nothing more than a sort of latent wizarding ability, but so focused and specialized that it didn't register as magic anymore. It would certain explain the skills like Kurt's, which was so close to Disapparation that it was almost eerie.

Kurt blinked for a moment, yellow-gold eyes never leaving the wizard. "I see."

It was quite clear he didn't.

Harry smiled gently, and then stretched in his seat. "If it makes you feel better, I can catch glimpses of the future, and know what's going to happen before it does. That's far odder than being able to jump from one place to another, isn't it? We're both mutants—" More or less, and Harry wasn't about to go into the technicalities "—and we both need to get away from the rest of the world."

" _Ja_." Kurt nodded quickly. "I vill tell no one. Your secret is safe." He wavered for a moment, and then stood. "Der is room in de loft, if you vish to stay vith me. It has been…lonely," he admitted, and offered Harry a hand. "Vould you like to see?"

"Certainly." Harry took the three-fingered hand without any hesitation. "Thank you, Kurt. I appreciate your kindness."

For the first time, Nightcrawler returned his smile, pulling him to his feet. "Ve are all de Lord's children. If He can love a teleporter, He can love a seer."

* * *

Between the two of them, they settled into an easy rhythm. Harry used this rare break between falls to catch up on sleep, and spent several days catching up on his reading in the peace of the church. It made him long for the small apartment in the lazy, fragrant heat of New Orleans, with the man who had so easily become everything to him, when they had spent hours curled together on the couch, reading or simply basking in shared closeness. But those thoughts were quickly pushed away in favor of living a life outside of his memories, and Harry tried to focus on the "when" he was currently in, and the tentatively friendly mutant who needed his support.

He and Kurt became good friends, better than Harry could remember making in a long while. And, for the second time in his timeless drifting, he felt no pressing, burning current in his veins, as if the Time Turners had finally become quiescent. It was as though whatever force had been driving them had vanished, and they were content to let him remain where he was. Harry was grateful for it, as it meant that he could stay with Kurt, and just a little bit bitter, because more than anything, he wished that it could have come just a little earlier, when he and Remy had been together.

Kurt needed him, though, being uncertain and unsure and nearly terrified of himself in a way that reminded Harry oddly of Neville in their first few years in school. Nightcrawler was like the brother he had never had, without the undertone of distance that Ron had always unconsciously kept from him. They shared stories about their pasts—if only vaguely, on Harry's part—and hopes about the future—though Harry, by now, had few of those. Slowly, the man was growing more confident, and Harry was glad to see it.

(Even if, deep inside, he wished more than anything to be with Remy once again.)

But then, one day, Harry returned from getting food and Kurt was nowhere to be found.

He waited for hours, pacing the floor of the church and trying to distract himself with books or cleaning, but to no avail. As time passed, his worry only grew. Kurt rarely left the church, and _always_ told him where he would be when he did. To disappear like this was not just unusual, but unheard of.

Just when he was getting ready to try and access the Time Turners in his blood and damn the consequences—falling was far preferable to ignoring Kurt's possible capture—there was a sharp crack and Nightcrawler appeared, staggering forward several steps and collapsing in Harry's arms.

" _Es tut mir leid_ ," he whispered brokenly, and Harry was startled to feel tears splash against his skin. " _So leid._ I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt anyone, but I could not stop myself. It vas like…a bad dream, like someone else vas _me_."

Harry wrapped the mutant in his arms and held him close, stroking his short, dark hair in a comforting gesture. As Kurt's hands fisted in his shirt, a small, round scar on the base of his neck caught the wizard's attention, and he frowned slightly. That hadn't been present when he had left that morning, meaning that whatever had caused it had occurred either right before Kurt had vanished, or during the time that he didn't remember. Whatever the answer was, it gave Harry a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach, and even as he guided the distressed mutant up into the loft where they slept, Harry's mind was spinning with plans and plots to keep them both safe.

He wouldn't be caught unaware again.

* * *


	7. Of Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

"Logan, my repeated requests about smoking in the mansion notwithstanding, continue smoking that in _here_ and you will spend the rest of your days under the belief that you are a six year old girl."

Logan blinked at the Professor, who ignored him in favor of Cerebro's control panel. "You'd do that?" he asked around the cigar in his mouth.

Xavier looked up and shot him a small smile. "I'll have Jean braid your hair."

Carefully, Logan put the cigar out on his palm and stepped forward, the doors sliding smoothly shut behind him. The machine started to hum, and he gave it a slightly wary look. "You want me to leave?"

That earned him another small smile, and the Professor slid the helmet on carefully. "Just—don't move."

The world fell away around them, and left them in empty space, an image of the earth rotating in the darkness. Its surface was scattered with millions of tiny white lights, interspersed here and there with red. Logan watched them shift and tremble for a moment, then looked back at the Professor.

Xavier was watching them, too, something very close to awe on his face. "Those lights represent the whole of humanity. Every living soul on every continent," he murmured. The white lights flickered and faded, leaving only the red, and the awe turned to wistfulness. "And these are the mutants—many of them don't even realize who they are yet. You see, we're not as alone as you think."

Logan thought about protesting, insisting that he didn't think they were alone—but weren't they? The white dots had outnumbered the red by millions, and the Professor could still calmly say they weren't alone? He scowled, and growled, "I found the base at Alkali Lake. There was nothing there."

The Professor didn't seem to hear him as the red lights faded, too, leaving only a jagged, broken red line that zigzagged up the East Coast. With a frown, Xavier shook his head slightly. "Odd. This broken line represents the path of the mutant who attacked the president. I'm finding it hard to lock on to him."

Giving up on getting any answers for the moment, Logan sighed. "Can't you just increase the…signal?"

"If I wanted to kill him, yes," Xavier countered with faint amusement, and Logan was reminded of just why the man was able to control an entire school worth of angsty mutant balls of hormonal teenage wrath. Charles Xavier was damned scary when he wanted to be.

Before he could say anything to that effect, though, the map flickered to show the red dot in Boston, coordinates writing themselves beside it. Xavier smiled. "It looks like he's finally stopped running, and…" He trailed off, eyes narrowing, and suddenly the multitude of red dots was back. One in particular was glowing brightly, even more so than the others, right next to the mutant Cerebro had been tracking.

His small supply of patience finally exhausted by the long moment of silence, Logan growled low in his throat. "I need you to read my mind again."

Slight frown firmly in place, Xavier closed his eyes, and the darkness collapsed around them, reforming into Cerebro's chamber. He removed the helmet and sighed. "Logan, I cannot help you. Using my telepathy is far too risky." He met Logan's irate gaze with eyes full of calm understanding. "If you must occupy yourself, you may accompany Jean and Storm in apprehending this mutant. I promise we will talk more when I return. I will be back shortly—Scott and I are going to pay a visit to an old friend."

Logan growled and turned on his heel, stalking out the door. Xavier watched him go with a sigh, and then turned to look back at Cerebro's control panel. Like an afterimage, he could see that strangely bright red light, and wondered at it.

* * *

The Time Turners tumbled through his veins with a speed that Harry had never felt before, and he stumbled, just managing to catch himself on one of the pews as a dizzying parade of images spun past his eyes—a man in a plastic prison; another man with a cruel smile and cold eyes; a woman with an empty gaze and fingernails like knives; a blue-skinned woman who became someone else even as he watched; Wolverine with that same disoriented, not-lost look that he had worn in New Orleans; a older man in a wheelchair, with wise eyes reminiscent of Dumbledore's; people in dark clothing like a SWAT team, coming for—

Harry tore himself away from the glimpses and shook his head to clear it, scrubbing his free hand over his eyes as he panted for breath. It was too much information, too much _knowing_ , and he couldn't handle it, not all at once. He swallowed convulsively, fighting back the urge to scream. It wouldn't help.

"Harry?" Kurt asked softly, touching his shoulder gently. "Vat is wrong?" There was concern in his voice, worry in his posture, and Harry tried to push through the _past-present-future_ rush and focus on the teleporter. He blinked several times, and then managed a small nod, sorting through the images to find the ones that were relevant.

"Someone's coming," he said softly, "looking for you. We need to go somewhere else. Is there anywhere we can get sanctuary? A place where mutants are safe?"

Kurt hesitated, but their time together had taught him not to question what Harry saw. "Der is…a school, in New York. De mutants I have encountered…dey say it is a good place for children to go, but ve are not—"

Harry cut him off with a shake of his head. "It doesn't matter. If they help children, there's no reason for them not to help us." Seeing the doubt that flickered and grew in Kurt's golden eyes, the wizard managed a small smile and placed a gentle hand on the mutant's arm. "What happened wasn't your fault, Kurt. Someone was controlling you. If they have an ounce of sense, they won't blame you for it."

His words didn't completely banish the concern in Kurt's face, but they did ease a bit of the tension in his shoulders, and he nodded. "I vill take us. I haf seen pictures, once."

"I'll pack," Harry offered, letting his hand rest where it was a moment longer. "But we need to go quickly. Five minutes?"

Kurt nodded, squaring his shoulders. "I vill be ready. Haf you…seen something?"

Already halfway up the ladder, Harry hesitated, biting his lip. "Just…a sense of urgency, and a man in a wheelchair who will be hurt if we don't go quickly. We need to stop him before he can leave." Without waiting for an answer, he scrambled the rest of the way into the left and hurriedly began packing what clothes they had managed to acquire.

Kurt watched him with a solemn gaze, wondering exactly what Harry had seen to concern him so much.

* * *

They appeared in with a crack, a whirl of blue smoke, and the smell of brimstone, and were nearly bisected by a beam of red light out of nowhere. Only an instant Shield Charm from Harry, who had anticipated a less-than-welcoming response to their dramatic arrival, saved them—and Harry still felt distinctly singed, since he had only just managed to make it large enough to cover their bodies, and the beam had deflected right past the side of his face.

Nevertheless, he raised his hands and shouted, "Stop! We seek sanctuary!"

The beam cut off instantly, and Harry was left blinking away the afterimages left by its brilliance. He squinted, peering at the two men in front of him, and frowned. "Sir," he said, as politely as possible, "If you keep going, you and your companion—" The man with red glasses regarded him warily, but held his peace "—will be kidnapped and tricked into killing every mutant on the planet with, er, Cerebrum? Something of the sort, anyway. I assume it means more to you than it does to me."

The wheelchair-bound man frowned back at him, but in confusion. Harry let him look, leaning against Kurt, as he wasn't yet completely steady after the Time Turners' extreme reaction. The older man's eyes flickered over him, assessing. "Young man, who are you?"

"Oracle," Harry answered promptly, before Kurt could offer either of their real names. "This is Nightcrawler. Someone controlled him and forced him to teleport into the Oval Office to attack the President."

"Oracle," the man repeated, eyes narrowing faintly. "I take it that you can see the future, then?"

Harry nodded. "Only glimpses, only sometimes, but I saw this clearly, and almost completely. I thought it was better to come to you before anything else happened."

"Ve had heard dat you took in mutant children," Kurt offered quietly. "I could not dink of anyvhere else to go."

The man hesitated for another long moment, then looked up at met their eyes with a smile. "Of course, you will be safe here. I am Professor Charles Xavier, and this is Scott Summers, one of the Professors here. Why don't we go to my office and see if we can get to the bottom of this, hm? Scott, please tell Logan, Jean, and Storm that they aren't needed for that retrieval, and then join us."

"All four of us, Professor?" Scott asked, sounding less than thrilled.

Xavier smiled faintly and nodded. "Yes, and Dr. McCoy, if you can succeed in prying him out of his lab. I believe it would be to all our benefits to hear what Oracle has to say." He turned his attention back to Harry and Kurt. "If you would accompany me?"

There was nothing to do but agree.

* * *

Logan smelled them the moment they arrived, the near-painful stench of brimstone overlaying the more delicate scent of earthy herbs and biting mint with a citrus chaser. He paused on the ramp of the Blackbird, eyes narrowing as he scented the air. That second scent was almost…familiar.

"Logan?" Storm looked at him with soft concern from where she was stowing their bags. "What is it?"

He hesitated for another moment, and then jumped off the ramp, heading for the door. "Intruders," he called back. "Might want to hold off on that preflight stuff 'til we know if they're friendly or not."

Exchanging a quick glance with Jean, the white-haired woman followed him. "It's not a student?"

Logan shook his head. "Too old. They're with Chuck and Slim right now. No fighting, but they're tense."

"Impressive nose," Storm murmured, smiling slightly as they strode out of the hangar and towards the front of the school.

Wolverine shot her a quelling look. "No bloodhound jokes. I get enough of those from One-Eye already."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she promised solemnly, though her eyes were alight with amusement. As she was about to add something else, they turned the corner and she almost collided with Logan when he stopped dead, right in the middle of the lawn.

The four standing there turned, and the shortest one, a slim man with a long braid of black hair, went still. For a long moment, there was no sound.

Then, softly, the black-haired man began to smile, and stepped forward. "Hello, Wolverine," he said, and Storm had never heard someone speak so gently to Logan before. Logan seemed just as startled as she was, and took a half step forward, as though he were going to reach for the other man.

"Shorty," he said, and there was confusion in his voice. "Ain't you supposed to be down south with Gumbo? Where's the Swamp Rat?"

"Ah." The man's smile faltered, and he looked down, releasing them from the grip of bottle-green eyes as pain flickered over his face. "That's…a long story, really." His gaze flickered up again, intent and faintly concerned. "But why are you here? Your memories—"

Logan shook his head, feeling confusion wash over him. He _knew_ Shorty—Oracle, the Cajun had always called him in company—but the knowledge of _where_ he knew him from was fuzzy. "You…know? About the amnesia?"

The concern on Oracle's angular features grew. "You mean…you don't remember that, either? The beach? New Orleans? But you remember me, and Remy."

"It's…hazy," Logan admitted, his earlier frustration coming back tenfold. "I know you and Gumbo, but—"

"Oh, I see." Oracle looked relieved, and gave him another small smile. His eyes were kind behind his wire-framed glasses. "We were the ones who took you off the Island, after you lost your memories, and we were the ones who brought you there in the first place, so you could do what you needed to. You didn't give us much information, but I do know a bit about the Island, if you'd like me to tell you."

Logan caught his breath, abruptly overwhelmed. Here, in front of him, was someone who could give him a part of the answers he had been looking for all this time. It was far too easy for this to be anything but a dream, and yet it wasn't a dream at all.

Professor Xavier looked around at them, and a quick smile crossed his face. He chuckled, and then gestured for the rest of them to precede him into the mansion.

"I believe," he said calmly, "that we have much to discuss."

* * *


	8. Of Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

It was a tense meeting, for all the obvious reasons—not the least of which was the fact that they were discussing the attempted annihilation of every living mutant, while in the presence of a mutant who had attempted to assassinate the President and set back mutant relations several decades in the space of seven seconds.

Wolverine—or Logan, Harry supposed he was called now—wouldn't stop staring.

"You're sure about this? There's no way it could be a…mistake?" Scott shifted uneasily in his chair, every nerve quite obviously on edge.

Once, a very long time ago, Harry might have taken offence at the implication, but he had been falling far too long for it to affect him anymore. He simply nodded. "Completely certain. I've never seen anything with this accuracy and clarity before. It's usually just a few disjointed images that I have to piece together myself, but this was…a waterfall, as compared to the usual garden hose."

Kurt watched them all with wary eyes. They hadn't said anything yet about him being the one to attack the President, and he was carefully trying not to draw attention to himself. Nevertheless, the white-haired weather witch's calming smile left him feeling slightly more at ease, and he settled himself by the wide window, watching as night fell.

"If they're going to use Cerebro to do this, they have to have gotten the information from somewhere," Jean pointed out. "Someone on the inside?" She brushed against the Occlumency shields Harry was maintaining and mentally recoiled, and Harry had to stifle a smile of satisfaction. Neither of the telepaths here could access his secrets, which was good for all concerned.

Xavier looked drawn, and older than he had just an hour before. There was something in his eyes that Harry had seen in Dumbledore's, an aged weariness that belied their normal manner. He had seen grief, far more than most, and lived through it while others didn't. It gave a certain kind of wisdom that couldn't be gained any other way, and was one that Harry respected above all. Now, he sighed and nodded slowly. "Yes, very much on the inside. Eric must have told him, and I doubt it was of his own free will."

"He can control people," Harry offered quietly, seeing the old, muted affection in the Professor's eyes. "They probably didn't hurt him, to get what they wanted."

The Professor clasped his hands loosely in his lap, and smiled rather faintly. "For Eric, I believe that the loss of control is worse than any sort of torture, but you are right. We must be thankful for that, at least." His eyes turned inward, contemplative, and he murmured, "If they have the plans, they will be coming for Cerebro, as there are certain parts that Eric is unable to recreate. They will also need a powerful telepath to operate, and there are few at the required level."

"One, you mean," Jean pointed out with a touch of exasperation. "You. And seeing as you and Cerebro are in the same place, they'll come here. Should we send the students home?"

Harry mentally leafed through the possibilities, and then shook his head. "It won't be necessary, and many of them have nowhere to go, even if you did. I can place a…barrier, of a sort, around the property, to keep anyone from getting in, but they'll still know where you are. I'll have to be with anyone who tries to reenter, as well, which is inconvenient."

Wards would work, for the most part, and they had already seem him cast a Shield Charm, so he could pass it off as a related ability. Even better would be a Fidelius Charm, but the pool of people in the know would be far too large to make it foolproof. A few wards like the ones around Hogwarts would be better, and would even disguise the school. He frowned and nodded to himself. That, coupled with several Notice-Me-Not Charms and a few avoidance spells, and an illusion to make the school look like a danger zone, would be prefect.

"Can you conceal the entire school?" Storm asked, seeing him refocus on his surroundings. "It's a large area."

Harry thought of Hogwarts, of hiding it during the war from Muggles and Death Eaters alike, and smiled, shaking his head. "It won't be a problem. I've done much bigger places before. But, while it will be a good deterrent for a while, we'll have to deal with the root cause at some point. A barrier will just buy us time."

"Time is the thing that we need the most," Xavier murmured, lacing his fingers together as his eyes traced over the room. "Scott, I would like you to discover as much as you can about this man that Oracle has described. If he is indeed military, and well enough connected to authorize actions such as this, then there will be files somewhere. Perhaps some of the students can help you, as they are particularly skilled in getting where they aren't supposed to be." His eyes crinkled with humor, and Harry was reminded of Dumbledore again. "Storm, Jean, prepare the emergency exits and make certain that everyone is familiar with them. I will see what can be done with Cerebro, to make it less of a target."

Nightcrawler moved for the first time, looking away from the view. "Vat vill you do vith us?"

The Professor smiled at them, and nodded towards the last of the X-Men in the room. "Logan will show you to guest quarters. Fear not, Mr. Wagner, we won't toss you out on your ear. I'm sure there is much Logan wishes to discuss, in any case." He nodded once more to all of them and wheeled out of the room. Scott, Jean, and Storm followed more slowly, all looking deep in thought.

Logan rolled his eyes at their retreating backs. "Wheels just needs a flute an' they could call him the Pied Piper. Come on, rooms 're this way." He stood and stretched, and then headed down the hall. Harry pulled Kurt along after him with a comforting pat on the shoulder.

As he did, the Time Turners shifted, ever so slightly, and Harry smiled, watching as the teleporter and the weather witch fell in love.

"Don't worry," he told Kurt gently. "Everything will work out."

Kurt looked at him and returned the smile, ever so slightly, but teleporter's heart nevertheless felt lighter.

When Harry spoke such simple platitudes, they had the ring of prophecy about them.

* * *

Harry leaned against the edge of the wide window, surveying the school. Like Hogwarts, it was impressive—though, he thought loyally, not nearly as impressive as the old castle. This was a newer castle on a much smaller scale, built more for beauty than any sort of defense. The grounds were beautifully landscaped, and his well-trained eyes caught glimpses of a very high-tech security system that covered all vantage points. A few students wandered here and there, or sat in the grass. There was an occupied basketball court off to one side, and figures moving in front of many of the other windows of the mansion that he could see.

Soft footsteps pulled his attention away from escape routes and tactical advantages— _Constant vigilance!_ Moody echoed in his mind—and he glanced back at Logan, who hovered somewhat awkwardly in the doorway of the room. Harry sighed and waved him in, settling on the windowsill.

"You want to know about the Island?" he asked, guessing what this was about.

Logan dropped into a chair, the motions economical and curt, like a large predator conserving every ounce of extra energy for a sudden attack. "Yeah. I remember you and Gumbo stuffing me with food, and then how I left the city, but nothing else. The Professor got something out of my head about Alkali Lake, up north, but there was nothing there."

Harry frowned and reached up to touch the Resurrection Stone on its chain around his neck. He turned it in his fingers for a moment, considering. "Alkali Lake is where the man I saw made his base. If he's experimenting on mutants, like the man who ran the Island, it's quite likely the two are connected, if not the same person. The base is under the lake, though, so you probably couldn't find it the first time. If we went there, they might have more answers." Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he looked up. "Regardless, you never told me exactly why you wanted to go to the Island, but you said that the man who ran it—Stryker, you and Remy called him—took something that you wanted back. I was never sure if that was meant literally or metaphorically, though."

Logan couldn't seem to tell, either, if his scowl was any indication. Harry let him stew for a few minutes, then added, "There was a man with you, when you first met us. A mutant called Wraith. Another mutant, Victor Creed, was sent to kill him. Wraith was black, a teleporter, and a few inches taller than I am, and well built, while Creed had claws and was brawny. Do they sound familiar?"

The scowl grew. "Creed sounds like Sabertooth, bastard. But why the hell would the henchman poster boy for mutant rights be working for that asshole?" Logan shoved himself to his feet and stalked away, pacing restlessly. He cast a sideways glance at Harry. "That special sight of yours tellin' ya anything, Shorty?"

The wizard just smiled as the Time Turners in his blood shifted once again, and everything aligned. In that instant, he felt the same strange, overwhelming sense of _rightness_ that he had felt when he woke up in Remy's bed for the first time. It was as though the entirety of the world was whispering, _"This is where you need to be,"_ into his ear. His smile, when it came again, was bittersweet but genuine.

 _It will all work out_. That wasn't a maxim he had ever thought to live by, but it felt oddly right for this place, this moment. Remy and Logan were not together right now, despite what he had seen before he left the Cajun, and that meant his vision was from even further in the future than he was right now. What if it wasn't Remy and Logan alone? What if he actually got to _stay_ in this time, or a time like it?

That thought, too, felt right, and Harry relaxed against the window, watching Wolverine watch him. He smiled again, and held out a hand to the other mutant. "Only what's obvious right now. Come here. Won't you tell me about this place, and the people? And what you've been doing since you left?"

For a moment, Logan looked like he was going to refuse. Then, with a sigh, he gave in and joined Harry on the window seat. "It's not that interesting."

"Humor me." Harry settled himself and smiled at Logan. "Well?"

Logan sighed, rolled his eyes, and started talking, and Harry let himself simply listen.

* * *

They spent the next week preparing for the inevitable attack. Logan went out with Harry to ward the boundaries of the school while the other X-Men were busy, and spent the evenings in Harry's room, talking or not. They were simple together, easy, a kind of companionship born of shared regard and a mutual fighter's outlook on the situation in which they found themselves. Harry found himself growing more and more fond of the gruff, brusque mutant, and knew that it was only a few steps away from love. He still loved Remy, of course, just as much as he ever had, but love was hardly limited to one being at a time. Harry's was simply stronger than most, easier to label as romantic love, but he didn't mind.

He remembered, too, what Remy had said to him the night Wolverine left them, the knowledge of _more to come_ in his hazel eyes. Remy had also felt the strange stirring of feelings for this man who was a stranger in his own skin. He didn't speak of it to Logan, gave no hints of what he really felt, but it was there nonetheless, strong and firm, unfading.

Something—a feeling, intuition, the Time Turners—told Harry that this was where he belonged, this had been the destination ever since he started falling, and that if he remained here long enough, all of the pieces would slide neatly together.

The time when that would happen was closing rapidly, and Harry let himself get swept along in the rush of it. For the first time, the Time Turners in his blood were completely quiet.

For the first time, Harry suspected that he had a future.

* * *


	9. Of Arrivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

This _when_ was strangely dreamlike, Harry thought, in a way that he had not thought would infect a place where he felt such _need_ to be. He had felt it before, when thinking about his past life, of his friends and family who had remained behind— _ahead?_ —when he started falling. What he could not understand was why he felt it _now_ and _here_ , when he had expected to feel drive and focus and something like what he had experienced while fighting Voldemort.

Nevertheless, even as he helped with preparations and warded the school, he felt rather distant, detached from the space around him. The Time Turners were spinning almost constantly in his blood now, showing a future that shifted like liquid mercury every time a decision was made or changed. That was a part of it, he suspected, but not _all_ of it, because he had found that only Logan could ground him. Only Wolverine could pull him back from the confusing maelstrom of futures and pasts and presents that threatened to overwhelm him every time he closed his eyes. Harry guessed that the Time Turners being overactive was due to staying so long in one time—as though, if they couldn't move him, they had to do _something_ to relieve excess energy, an so they channeled it into his visions.

Such visions were overwhelming, though, and Harry often had to excuse himself from what he was doing and lie in his darkened room, or find Logan to have a long sparring session. Logan never minded the latter, because he could use his claws without worrying about breaking through one of Harry's shields, and while Wolverine had strength and stamina, Harry had speed and planning on his side, and they were evenly matched. Scott, Jean, Storm, or Nightcrawler often came to watch as the two whirled and spun together, clashing and dodging and retreating and advancing, like an odd dance with mismatched partners.

But Harry couldn't always distract himself with movement or darkness, and sometimes the visions would overwhelm him to the point that he thought he would go mad before they stopped. They often left his shaking and cursing his own weakness, investing all his strength simply in remaining standing.

Scott—Cyclops, the trigger-happy (eye-happy?) one who had almost fried them on arrival—found him once, when it was worse than usual, and Harry could do no more than lean against the wall, holding onto it with a death grip as the world spun dizzyingly around him. The leader of the X-Men crouched down next to him, expression worried, and reached out as though to feel his forehead for a fever.

Harry stopped his hand before he could make contact, and favored him with a weak smile. "Sorry, but if you do that, I'll probably throw up. I can't stand anymore glimpses of _anything_ right now."

Scott nodded and calmly settled next to him, leaning against the wall as though this were a normal pastime for him. "Too much?" he asked simply.

It took Harry a moment to sort out the here-and-now from the used-to-be and might-yet-happen, but when the words had registered, he nodded. "Yes. It's like…every time one of you moves, or _I_ move, everything changes again. It gets a bit…hectic."

The other man was silent for a few moments, and then nodded slowly. "The same thing happens to the Professor, sometimes, if he's really tired. It happened to Jean, too, when she was first getting used to her powers. They get overwhelmed with thoughts, but it's probably something similar."

Harry smiled weakly, closing his eyes against the nausea he could feel building. "I'm glad I'm not a telepath, no matter what else I am," he said, and it was almost fervent. "Seeing the future is a thousand times better than reading minds."

"Mm." Scott chuckled softly and tapped his visor. "I feel the same way. I'd rather shoot laser beams indiscriminately from my eyes than have to poke around in other people's heads."

Through one cracked lid, Harry surveyed the leader of the X-Men, seeing the stern planes and laugh lines that seemed to contradict each other, but nevertheless existed in one face. The other man looked tired, as if he needed a good twelve hours of interrupted sleep, and the wizard had to wonder just how hard he was pushing himself to be sure that everything in the school was absolutely perfect.

"You know," he said mildly, after a moment, "that when you tell other people to get some rest, it works a lot better if _you_ look like you've gotten some in the past thirty-six hours? How long has it been since you got some sleep?"

Scott chuckled again and dropped his head back against the wall. "I don't know—is that a bad sign?"

Harry rolled his eyes and muttered something about stupid heroes who thought they were beyond the needs of mortal beings—conveniently forgetting the times when he had been the exact same—then pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand to help Scott up. "Our rooms are in the same hall. Why don't you help me get there without falling over and then get some rest for yourself? Nothing drastic is going to happen in the next seven hours, I promise."

"Well, if you say it, then I guess I have to believe it." Scott accepted the hand and got up, looping an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Come on, then. Should you even be walking?"

"If you try to carry me, I'll castrate you with a spoon," Harry threatened calmly. "I'm just fine walking the five hundred meters to my bed _on my own_."

His warning made the mutant roll his eyes. "That's no way to talk to your human crutch," Scott chided, tightening his grip as Harry staggered. "Though I suppose I owe you one for keeping Logan away from Jean. Maybe without him flirting constantly we can actually get along."

Scott was a good leader, Harry reflected, concentrating on putting one foot before the other and staying upright. He knew the strengths and weakness of those under him, could balance them with one another and keep the peace. He played the stern, mean professor type, but he was really a caring man with more responsibilities than most people three times his age.

Harry could well relate.

As they reached the door of his room, he gently disengaged Scott's arm and stepped away. On the threshold, he hesitated, and then glanced over his shoulder at the brown-haired mutant.

"You're a good man," he said quietly. "Everyone here—even Logan, though he'd never show it—respects you, and would follow you no matter what. But they worry, too, just as much as you do. Jean especially. So…try to get some sleep."

He vanished into the room, the door sliding softly shut behind him, and left a bemused and startled Scott standing on his own in the hallway.

* * *

Harry rose from a dreamless sleep with the feeling of _coming, someone's coming_ thrumming through his veins. Quickly, he pulled on the closest pair of pants and darted out of the room, only pausing to knock on Scott's door.

"We have a visitor," he called softly, when the sleepy affirmation came. "I don't think we'll be in danger, but you'll want to be there anyway. And Jean will be needed in the infirmary." Then he turned and strode for the main gate, the feeling of _go-go-go_ driving him onward. It was similar to the feeling he got before the Time Turners shifted and whisked him away, but different at the same time—more warning, less pressing, full of shifting past-visions of fire and destruction and a glowing, spinning metal orb.

Harry shook off the glimpses and jogged down to the gates, the grass wet and cold under his bare feet. With only the faintest hesitation—old habits died hard, especially after Mad-Eye Moody was the one to instill them—he crossed the edges of the wards and stepped out of the safety the school provided, watching as two limping figures came closer.

"Erik Lensherr," Harry greeted calmly, then turned his gaze to the one supporting him. "And Raven Darkhölme. I suppose you have a reason for coming here?"

Magneto looked up at him, face drawn and unhealthily pale. Mystique was supporting him, holding him up with her arm around his waist and his arm around her shoulder. She flinched slightly at the sound of her name, but looked up and met his eyes, pleading gold locking with stern bottle green.

"Please," she said softly, and her voice was rough, as though she didn't often speak. "They were using plastic bullets. He needs help."

Harry surveyed them for a moment, scanning what the Time Turners showed him for any hints of duplicity. He found none, only the relief in Xavier's face when Erik was well. Nodding, he quickly moved to support Magneto's other side. "This way. Make sure you have a hand on me, or the wards will keep you out." He led them forward in a slightly lurching walk, and relaxed slightly as soon as they were past the barrier. Mystique's breath caught in her throat, and she glanced behind them, staring out at the normal landscape beyond the school, where there had before been a crumbling house. When she looked at Harry, he smiled and tapped his temple.

"I'm Oracle," he told her. "It's nice to meet you, Mystique."

Scott was waiting for them, Logan and Storm behind him. He didn't look happy, but he nevertheless nodded to Harry, the three of them falling into step. "Jean is getting the infirmary prepped. She'll be ready by the time you get there."

The wizard offered him a grateful smile and nodded. "I know. Don't worry, they won't do anything while they're here—not unless something changes drastically."

Cyclops looked uncertain for another moment, then sighed and nodded, leading the way into the mansion.

Xavier and Kurt were waiting for them in the doorway. Kurt took a step closer and offered, "I can take him der."

Harry nodded, handing Magneto over. As Nightcrawler disappeared in a burst of blue smoke, he looked at the nervous Mystique and smiled comfortingly, touching her hand. "Scott and the others will take you down to him. Don't worry, he's going to be fine."

Storm took her arm, and though she was still slightly wary, her eyes were kind. "Come, this way." She led the other woman to the stairs, Scott and Logan following somewhat helplessly behind.

It was, Harry thought with amusement, strangely reminiscent of Crabbe and Goyle trailing after Malfoy, and he chuckled slightly at the image that thought called up. The Professor's gaze settled on him, questioning, but Harry waved his concern away. "Sorry, sorry. It's nothing. Just…a memory." Sighing, he stretched and nodded to Xavier. "I think I'd better go along with them, though. Just to make sure nothing is going to happen."

Xavier nodded. "Perhaps that would be best. They have not had the best history together, I'm afraid." He laced his fingers in his lap and sighed. "Erik…lost his way some time ago."

Harry paused at the foot of the stairs and glanced back. "It's not too late," he said softly.

Xavier blinked, and glanced up from the study of his hands. "What was that?"

Smiling, Harry repeated, "It's not too late for him. Erik Lensherr. Magneto. All isn't lost. He's going to waver, some time in the near future. If you just give him a push at the right moment…" He trailed off, but from the look in Xavier's eyes, he understood. With a last, soft smile, Harry walked up the stairs and vanished around the corner.

Xavier watched the younger man go with a thoughtful look.

* * *

Scott had agreed—if grudgingly—to Magneto's presence in the mansion as long as he was guarded. Harry had offered to take the midnight shift so that the others could get some rest, and slipped into the infirmary just as Jean started yawning.

"Go to bed," he told her gently. "I won't touch anything in here, don't worry."

She cast him an amused look and nodded, mumbling, "He's all yours," around the beginnings of another yawn. Harry watched her leave, and then took a seat next to Magneto's bed. The older man was conscious and watching him, eyes narrowed faintly in thought.

"What is your name?" he asked.

Harry gave him an arch look and settled back in the chair, watching with faint amusement as Erik tried to visually dissect him. "Oracle," he said after a moment.

"And your power?"

The wizard could see where this was going, but answered anyway. "The barrier around the school was my work. I can also see the future, but only glimpses, and only when the future wants to be seen."

Magneto smiled, and it was both stern and cruel, edged with something very close to grief. "You are a god among insects. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Harry's amusement strengthened, and he raised a brow at the mutant. "Hardly a god, Mr. Lensherr, and the humans are hardly insects. Some of the strongest, bravest people I know have been human born and raised." Hermione, especially, had always been strong, his rock in the last days of the War. "You would do well to remember that mutants can be weak, just as humans can be resilient. It is a flaw in your ideology, that only mutants can be worthy." With a small smile, he opened the book he had brought and immersed himself in the words, even as visions of _what-is-to-come_ whirled though his mind.

* * *


	10. Of Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

It was just slipping from false dawn to true dawn when Logan found Harry on the roof. The mutant picked his way across the singles with a grace that seemed incongruous when considering his bulky frame, and sank down to sit beside the wizard, staring at the rising sun.

The silence held for several minutes before Logan finally sighed and growled, "You said it was a long story, why you weren't with Gumbo. What's up?"

At first, Harry didn't answer. He looked across the grounds, seeing the light slowly creep across the dew-wet grass and damp stone of the drive, edging up the sides of the buildings and illuminating the crowns of the trees. The words that he needed—the ones he should have said—lodged in his throat, as thick as treacle in December. He _wanted_ to speak—wanted it more than anything—but he _couldn't_. Thoughts of Remy flooded his mind, first meeting and last glimpse and everything in between, and he buried his face in his hands as guilt swamped him like a breaking wave.

"I…left," he finally managed, though those two words were all but strangled by remorse, shame, and agony. "I had no choice, but…I don't even know how long ago it was! I don't even know if he's still—" He cut himself off, unable to ever _think_ about what finished that sentence. "And I'm took cowardly to ask the Professor to look—what if he _hates_ me now?"

Logan looked at him with strangely grave eyes, taking in the fine tremors that ran through the other man. With a soft sigh, he wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders and pulled him close, tucking him tightly against his side. "Look, Shorty," he said gruffly, "Gumbo ain't gonna hate you for somethin' you had no choice in. the Swamp Rat's too smart for that. You two were happy, right? He won't let you go just for that."

Harry rubbed a hand through his unbraided hair, tugging on the dark locks with something close to despair. "You can't _know_ that," he protested, then froze, his eyes widening. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and took five deep breaths, and then exhaled on a long sigh. His trembling stopped, and when he looked up, some measure of calm had returned to his face.

"You're right," he said after a moment, and smiled. It was wan, and a bit shaky, but Logan returned it with a quirk of his own mouth. Harry chuckled softly and leaned against his shoulder, inhaling again. "Thank you, Logan," he whispered fiercely.

When he looked up, Wolverine was still watching him with the intensity he had lost along with his memories. His dark eyes burned with some banked emotion that Harry couldn't name. It stole his breath, though, and he found himself unable to move as Logan leaned in closer, lifting his hand towards Harry's cheek. For one wild moment, Harry didn't know whether to expect a touch or another blow, recognizing that bright gaze from their daily sparring sessions, when Logan came at him with claws and teeth bared, whirling through strikes and away from attacks that would have left a lesser man gasping on the ground.

Instead, what Harry received was a _caress_. Logan's rough, blunt fingers traced over his brows, ghosted along his cheekbones, and slid back into his hair. He drew the wizard forward, his touch soft enough that Harry could have resisted, if he had wanted to.

But Harry didn't want to.

It had been years, it felt—centuries, millennia, perhaps—since someone had touched him like this. And while Logan was not Remy, he nevertheless felt _right_ , in a way only the Cajun had before.

So Harry didn't resist. He slid closer to meet Logan, and when their lips collided, it was just as fierce and harsh as their sparring—a battle of give and take, two fighters looking for weaknesses and finding them in the glide of hands and tangle of tongues, the nips of teeth and the breathless gasps that were surrendered. There was nothing soft or gentle about their kiss, but neither of them needed soft or gentle right then.

They drew apart, both breathing hard, but Harry was smiling softly again.

"We wanted this, you know," he said fondly, tracing his fingers over Logan's cheek. "If you hadn't left, we might have tried to see if you were open to the idea."

Wolverine's pupils dilated and he sucked in a short breath, and then released it in a rough laugh. "Shorty, if ya were trying to calm me down, you failed." He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Gumbo, too? Or just you?"

"Remy also," Harry affirmed, flashing him a mischievous grin. "But perhaps it was good that you left, then. I don't think any of us were ready, really. Now…" He smiled and tangled their fingers together, caressing the faint scars where his claws emerged. The Time Turners shifted just enough to give him a glimpse of auburn hair and hazel eyes, though the backdrop was one he wasn't familiar with. His smile widened, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the tingling warmth of the new sun on his face. "Well, we'll see."

Logan was still watching him, focused and intent, but he snorted softly, muttered something about _damn cryptic bastards_ , and leaned in for another kiss.

* * *

Scott watched them kiss from his room, where the window faced the wing on which the pair was currently perched, each lost to any world but the one that contained the other.

"I hope they remember that they're in a public place, and that _students_ can see them," he muttered, but there was no venom in the words, and he seemed more amused and resigned than anything.

Jean smiled and leaned against his side, cradling a cup of coffee in her hands—his cup, Scott noticed, raising an eyebrow at her. She just grinned unrepentantly and took a sip, her gaze straying to where Logan and Oracle sat. "I think they're cute. Come on, you have to agree, right?"

"I 'have' to do no such thing, and if they get any further then second base right now, I'll fry them," he retorted, stealing his coffee back and making a face. She had added milk and sugar, while he usually took it black. Nevertheless, he took a sip, settling onto the couch under the window and pulling Jean down with him. He cast one more glance at the rooftop and rolled his eyes. "Maybe the mysterious Oracle will actually be good for Logan. He'll keep him out of trouble, at the very least."

Jean's eyes grew distant for a moment, and she frowned thoughtfully. "Oracle really is mysterious. I wish I could read him, sometimes. He's quite polite about keeping us out, and he doesn't block everything, only his thoughts. His emotions are usually clear." She bit her lip, worry overtaking her features. "He feels tired, Scott, in a way no one that young should be. Maybe…" She trailed off, watching a pair of students zigzag across the lawn, laughing, as a third chased after them. Her smile, when it came again, was full of peace. "Maybe the school will be good for him."

"Mm. Crazy people do seem to flourish here," Scott agreed blandly, then grunted as Jean planted an elbow in his ribs. He raised his free hand in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'll stop! Can't you take a joke?"

A second elbow followed the first. "Want to rephrase that?"

"No." Scott wriggled out of the way of the next blow, standing and shooting her a sour look. "Your sense of humor is extremely lacking."

Jean got up to follow him, her smile charming. "Oh, really?"

Scott took a step back and she matched him. He lifted an eyebrow. She lifted one back.

"You should run, honey," the telepath advised sweetly, and took a step forward.

* * *

Magneto eyed the weather witch as she fiddled with a handheld computer. Mystique sat beside her, watching what she was doing, but it was more out of curiosity than with the intent to do future harm. He wondered at that, at how his most loyal follower could have been turned so _soft_ after only a day here. It could have been Charles and his ever-present aura of peace and acceptance, but Erik rather suspected that it was the young man from before, with his long hair and neat glasses and ancient eyes, his quiet amusement when speaking of the principles upon which Erik had built his whole life.

The boy, Oracle, was strong—quite possibly stronger than anyone else in the mansion. But it was an odd strength, one that seemed _passive_ , and content to be that way. He had a fighter's lean grace, but nevertheless, there was no feeling of overt power around him. Had Erik not see his eyes, not been faced with every ounce of that eerie regard, not seen the distant, detached amusement that filled his face when Erik spoke of gods and insects, Erik would have thought the boy as weak as any normal human.

And there it was, that damned influence Oracle seemed to spread like a touch of plague—he was already thinking of them as _normal_ humans, as compared to _other_ humans, such as mutants. How could all his views have shifted with only a few simple sentences? Why did he have to recall every time a human had shown strength in front of him? _Why_ did he have to remember Charles's quiet insistence—so like the young man's—that humans were _not weak_ , even if they were not mutants?

The doors of the infirmary slid open, and the soft sound of wheels on the tile made him glance up, to see the subject of his thoughts moving closer.

"Charles," he greeted warily, noticing that Storm and Mystique were standing, slipping out of the room to give them privacy. "Come to gloat that I've thrown myself on your mercy once again, old friend?"

Charles simply smiled, and Erik was again reminded of Oracle's peaceful expression, though he couldn't tell if Oracle was affecting Charles or if it was the other way around. Xavier shook his head and stretched out a hand, as though he wanted Magneto to take it.

"Erik," he said, and there was something gentle and almost _glad_ in his eyes. "Welcome back. It's been a long time since we could meet on equal ground."

Erik gave him an incredulous look. "Charles, I am well aware of your age, but surely even you cannot be going senile already. Last time we met, I was trapped in a plastic prison that _you_ helped put me in, while you were—" He broke off, afraid to say too much, to give away anything that could be used against him.

The other man was still watching him, and there was neither recrimination nor guilt in his face as he clasped his hands in his lap again. "Erik," he said quietly, "what I did was nothing more or less than what I had to. You were not prepared to listen to reason, and I was not prepared to give it. I believe that the events on Liberty Island were a touch too close to the past for either one of us to feel comfortable with them."

Wanting to laugh, but unable to because of the stitches in his side, Erik settled for shaking his head. "Charles," he repeated, snorting softly, "old friend, you have always had a gift for understatement."

Charles smiled, humor glittering in his hazel-green eyes. "Well, dear friend," he countered, "you have always had a gift for dramatics." Seriousness flickered across his features, and he sat back in his wheelchair, surveying the other man intently. "Erik, surely you are aware by now that I do not blame you for what happened, and I never have."

Erik looked away, closing his eyes briefly.

"It was an accident," Charles insisted evenly. "I could hardly have wished that you did not shield yourself from Moira's shots, and I have adapted. It did not ruin my life." He reached out and touched the back of Erik's hand, the faintest brush of fingertips on skin. "Dear friend," he repeated. "I would not call you that if it were an empty sentiment, and I believe that you feel the same." Leaning back, he picked up the book Oracle had left there earlier and glanced at the title, his mouth quirking into a crooked smile as he showed Erik the page it was open to. "A little light reading?"

Erik glanced at the cover and couldn't help but chuckle, even through the pain and haze of drugs. Dostoyevsky's _Crime and Punishment_. "Mikolka's confession," he murmured, scanning the passage. "Is the boy trying to tell me something?"

"' _If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be punishment _—_ as well as the prison_,'" Charles quoted, his own chuckle rich and warm as he met Erik's eyes again. "Raskolnikov might have been a villain, but he was ever an interesting one."

"And I?" Erik asked before he could help himself. "Am I an interesting villain, old friend?"

This time, their fingers slid together, old reminiscences and muscle memories working in tandem so that it felt as though they had never parted.

"Always," Charles confirmed, still smiling. "The most interesting villain of them all."

* * *

Harry dropped onto his bed, feeling the strange sensation of the world spinning wildly on its axis, with him at the very center.

"What to do?" he whispered aloud, watching moonlight creep across his floor. "What to do, what to do?"

There was no answer, but he wasn't looking for one. He already knew. Closing his eyes, he thought of Sirius, and Remus, and Dumbledore, and Snape. That grief was an old wound, finally manageable after all his years away. He still missed them, of course, but he had accepted the fact that they had moved on.

" _Thank you for saving Ron,"_ Hermione had told him once, her eyes just shy of desperate. _"I don't know what I would have done without him."_

"You would have lived," Harry whispered into the darkness. He hadn't answered her then, but he did so now, even knowing his words would never reach her. "It's the hardest thing in the world, but it's the only thing we really _can_ do—pack away the bad times, cherish the good times, and live as best we're able."

He reached over and picked up the pack of playing cards he had set on the bedside table, flicking through them. They spun through his fingers, a trick Remy had shown him, until he paused, staring at the card on top of the pile. Carefully, he plucked it off the stack and held it up the bright moonlight, his gaze unwavering.

The joker stared right back at him, laughing.

"One change," Harry murmured, watching the future shift with each plan he considered or discarded. "One wildcard upsets the whole deck."

* * *


	11. Of Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

Harry sat in front of the mirror as he braided his hair, staring at his reflection in contemplation. His mind whirled through ideas, discarding them or filing them away for later study just as fast as they formed. He was humming softly, something that the Weird Sisters had sung during his other life, at a ball that he hadn't wanted to attend, for a tournament that he hadn't wanted to be part of. The song was catchy, though, so he still remembered it even now.

He tied off his braid with the same silver ribbon he had used in New Orleans, when Remy had first asked him about his powers.

The face in the mirror was a lie, he thought as he eyed it critically. A serene expression, calm gaze—but his face, now that he looked closely, was a bit too pale, his eyes a touch too wide. Little signs, little things— _the little things give you away_ , a song had said once. Not a Weird Sisters song, but something else, from _somewhen_ else that he could no longer recall.

" _Don't want to reach for me do you? I mean nothing to you. The little things give you away_ ," he sang, and then bit his lip. There was more, something about levees…

Levees like in New Orleans.

New Orleans.

 _Remy._

The past-future-present rush was getting to be too much. It pressed on him, weighed him down, forced him into action when his Slytherin half was urging caution and care. _Gryffindor_ , something in his mind sneered, and it sounded uncannily like Snape. Harry smiled slightly, rubbing his hands over his face and nearly knocking off his glasses.

"Time," he whispered. "It's time."

But was it time now? Or was time the answer? Even he couldn't tell.

Harry pushed to his feet and took a deep breath, then made sure the Elder Wand was safe in its place along his leg, the Invisibility Cloak was folded in his pocket, and the Resurrection Stone was secure on its chain around hi neck. He never worried about losing them, because they always seemed to come to him no matter what, but he needed them for what he was planning.

If Xavier went, he would be used to kill every mutant on the planet, no matter how hard he fought.

Nightcrawler hadn't been in the places Harry wanted to go, so he wouldn't be of use.

If Magneto went, he would be recaptured, without hope of breaking free again.

Mystique would be found out and killed before she could do any damage.

Scott would be caught and used against the other X-Men.

Storm would suffer the same.

Jean would die.

Logan would be the best choice, but he was too volatile, too easily manipulated by his emotions, because that base _was_ his past, all he would probably ever know of it. Harry had thought for a long time about including him, before finally deciding that he was better off going alone. He needed speed and stealth, had to sneak in undetected and bring the place down from the inside, in a way that no one would ever be able to tie back to mutants.

Taking another breath, Harry slipped out of his room and headed down to the mansion's basement, where one of the X-Men spent all of his time building new things and updating the mansion's security, rarely emerging except to eat a few times a week. He was odd, but a genius—and he loved things that exploded.

Harry paused in the doorway and rapped his knuckles against the partly open metal door, scanning the brightly lit interior of the lab for the familiar, dark-haired man who would invariably be somewhere in the clutter.

After a moment, he gave up looking with a soft sigh. "Forge?" he called quietly.

With a rustle and a clank, Forge emerged from behind a pile of circuit boards and wires, and grinned at him. "Hey, Oracle! What brings you all the way down here?"

Harry gave him a half-smile in return. "Can you keep a secret?"

The technopath's grin grew even wider. "Come on, Oracle, you know I can!"

Of course." Harry glanced around the room, then back at him, and smiled slightly. "I need something that goes boom."

* * *

Nightcrawler was waiting when he emerged from the mansion. As Harry came to a stop in front of him, Kurt shifted from foot to foot, tail curling worriedly, almost like a cat's might. He met Harry's questioning gaze and steeled himself for a moment, then said, "Bring me vith you."

Harry was already shaking his head, shifting his duffle bag over his shoulder. "No," he said firmly. "I know what I'm doing, Kurt. I've _seen_ it. If I bring someone else with me, it might change things. That would be…bad." He held Kurt's eyes for a long instant, trying to be sure his message got through. "There is no one here who can help me," he said, carefully and deliberately.

Kurt's eyes narrowed, and he nodded sharply, then took a step back. "I vill vait," he said firmly. "Do not die, Harry."

With a smile, Harry took his three-fingered hand and gripped it tightly, then released him, turned, and vanished into the woods that edged the estate. As soon as he was out of sight, he turned on his heel and vanished, reappearing an instant later in the underground base he had been seeing in his visions for weeks now. Three quick Stunners took out the guards around the storage room, who hadn't noticed his quiet Apparition.

Even as they fell, Harry dragged his cloak out of his pocket and over his head, slipping out the door and into the hallway. It was almost a relief to use magic like this, after so long of having to watch every motion he made. He was happy being thought a mutant, and had no plans to change that, but he was, above all else, a wizard.

Still, as much as he liked magic, sometimes technology was even more useful. With a grin, Harry paused in front of a support pillar and fished one of Forge's palm-sized bombs out of his bag. It stuck easily to the concrete, and he concealed it with a Notice-Me-Not Charm. There was no timer, and it was all but impossible for someone other than Forge to disarm it. The trigger was in Harry's pocket, harmless until he input the correct sequence of colors into it.

The Time Turners were still spinning, the visions of past-future-present still sliding endlessly across his mind, but he pushed them to the side and focused on what was relevant—the presence of a strange mutant three rooms over, plus a large, empty space that was probably meant to house Cerebro after Stryker managed to steal it.

Not that he ever would, Harry thought with gleeful maliciousness, slapping another bomb into place. He regretted the loss of the soldiers who manned the base, but years of war had taught him that some losses were necessary to earn a victory. The men here had also known about what was going on, and seen the mutants dragged in here for experiments, and Harry couldn't reconcile the idea of _innocence_ with _someone who knows about cruelty but does nothing_. He set his teeth and placed another bomb, working his way towards the center of the base in a loose spiral. His senses picked up only the strange mutant, and no others—but the strange one felt odd, warped, as though he or she were screaming on the inside and unable to express it. As far as sanity went, there was nothing left to save.

"Sorry," Harry whispered in the mutant's direction. "This will be over soon."

The silent screams grew louder, but he blocked them out and continued, quickly reaching the bottom of his bag. As he pulled out the last device, he blew out a short breath, and then slapped it onto the wall of the main control hub.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, focusing on the mutant he could sense. But the apology was, in equal part, to Logan, because—no matter how much Harry had wanted this to work out differently, there was no way around destroying the base. It happened in almost every future that ended successfully, and many of the ones that didn't. Whatever past of Logan's that was hidden here would be lost, but Harry couldn't find it in himself to stop. Better this than any of the other options he had seen.

And then the soft, nearly inaudible hiss of razor metal sliding through the air alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone, and Harry threw himself forward into a roll as five long, delicate silver claws grazed through the air where his head had been.

A slender woman stared at him as he came back to his feet, her eyes blank and glassy, her long nails gleaming with the same sheen that Logan's did. Harry refocused on the Time Turners, catching a glimpse of the same woman being wrestled to the ground by a group of soldiers, and the stocky man who now stood behind her placing three drops of liquid on the back of her neck. His lips moved soundlessly, and Harry repeated the words.

"Lady Deathstrike," he said softly, watching her face for any sign of recognition. There was none, but it likely wasn't _her_ name. He took a breath and tried again. "Yuriko Oyama. Can you hear me?"

That got a reaction, a twitch and shiver, and her oddly pale eyes focused on him. Harry smiled gently at her and said softly, "This isn't you. Come back to yourself."

For a moment, he almost thought it would work. Then, like the snap of a bullwhip, Stryker's voice cracked through the spell and shattered the awareness in her eyes.

"Kill him," the man ordered shortly.

Deathstrike blurred into motion, nails weaving a shimmering, deadly net of silver in the air as she lunged. Harry rolled again, rising to his feet and throwing himself back as her claws scored though several inches of metal support beam beside him. He threw up a quick Shield Charm, but a moment too late. Her next blow scored deep gashes into his shoulder, and he cried out.

Then, without warning, three small rectangles of blazing, purple-red fired whirled past Harry's face and slammed into Deathstrike, throwing her back into the far wall with an explosion of kinetic energy. Two more followed, shattering the ceiling above her and sending chunks of concrete thundering down. She cried out over the sound of falling stone and then was abruptly cut off, collapsing limply to one side with blood pooling around her head.

There was a moment of silence where Stryker simply stared. Then, quickly, he tried to take a step away—only to freeze as the glowing end of a bō staff appeared in front of him, perilously close to his throat.

Harry pressed the edges of his torn shirt to the wound and smiled up at his rescuer.

"Hello, Remy," he said with a crooked smile. "Your timing is as wonderful as ever."

The Cajun managed cast him an incredulous look, dividing his attention between the wizard, the downed mutant, and the colonel. "'Arry, _mon chèri_ , it be more den t'irty years and all ya can say ta Remy be 'good timin'?"

Harry snorted, wrapping the wound as best he could and going over to check Lady Deathstrike. She was breathing, at least, and he cast a silent Stunner to be sure she wouldn't wake up soon, then turned back to Remy with a crooked smile. "Oh, there are things that I would _much_ rather do to you, and say to you, but they'd best wait until we're in private. I assume Kurt brought you here?"

" _Ja_." The blue-skinned mutant slipped cautiously out of the shadows. "Vat can I do to help?"

Harry pulled Yuriko free of the debris and handed her off to Kurt. "Take her back to the mansion. She's suffering from the same drug that they gave you, but it should wear off soon. Then come back and get us. I have to set off the charges."

"It vill be done." Nightcrawler took her arm and vanished in a whirl of blue smoke. The loud crack as he disappeared was echoed by the crack of metal on something hard and hollow, and Harry turned to find Remy looking innocent, and Stryker unconscious at his feet.

"Tryin' ta escape," the Cajun said guilelessly. "Remy be puttin' a stop ta dat."

Harry rose, pushing down the unease that had before been held at bay by adrenalin. Now, though, there was nothing to dilute the knowledge that Remy was _here_ and _looking at him_ and _taking to him_ and seemingly _not mad_. He looked at the Cajun, fighting down the sharp-hot pain that flooded his chest, and clenched his hands at his sides to keep from reaching out to him. Remy still seemed the same, still looked somewhere between devilish wickedness and boyish charm, and Harry _ached_ with want for what he had been ripped away from so long ago. _Thirty years_ , Remy had said. Remy hadn't aged, but even so, how was he here? _Why_ was he here? How could he still want to be near _Harry_?

"Were you…looking for me?" he asked, almost soundless.

Strong hands closed around his upper arms, carefully avoiding his wounded shoulder, and forced him to look at the man in front of him. Remy's red-hazel eyes were firm, blazing with more emotions than Harry could name, and he said nothing as he leaned down and yanked Harry forward, winding his arms around the wizard's waist as he fused their mouths together. It was everything that Harry had been missing, all these many, many years—the feel of comfort, of home, of _here-and-now-is-all-we-need_ , of chicory and coffee and Cajun spices and everything that was _Remy_ , and it was all Harry could do not to let himself weep, for the first and last time since Dumbledore's death. Remy kissed him like he was air, and Remy a man who had been drowning for years. And Harry kissed him back the same way, wrapping himself in the scent and feel and taste of his Cajun until he knew that, no matter where or when he went, he would never, ever forget.

"I love you, Remy," he whispered as they separated, both breathless. "I never stopped, no matter when I was, or where, or how long I was away. I'm sorry."

Remy looked down at him with heartbreaking humor in his eyes, and flashed that crooked grin that made Harry's heart hurt in a good way. " _Mon amour_ , dis be not de time o' de place, but we be talkin' abou' it in _much_ grea'er detail later, hm?" He kissed Harry one more time, brief and possessive, then turned towards the crack that heralded Nightcrawler's arrival. He never let go of Harry's hand, though, and Harry clung to that warm, firm grip like it was his last lifeline in a crumbling world.

"I'm sorry for leaving, Remy," he murmured again, even as he pressed the correct sequence into the trigger and let it fall from his fingertips, a moment before the base dissolved around them and was replaced by the peaceful New York countryside.

His laughter was one step shy of tears. "I love you, Remy. I'm sorry."

Remy just pulled him into his arms, holding him tightly, closely, ignoring the X-Men around them. "Shh," he murmured into Harry's ear. "Ah got ya, _chèri_ , an' ah never be lettin' ya go again."

* * *


	12. Of Reasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
>  **Disclaimer** : Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway. _

Harry felt that he was more than patient, simply watching as Remy fiddled with his cup of coffee, complaining that it didn't taste right—no chicory, Harry reminded him calmly—investigated Harry's rooms, took in the view of the school, and then finally— _finally_ —took a seat on the foot of the bed, looking at Harry where the wizard sat curled on his pillows.

"So," the Cajun said quietly. "Whaddaya be meanin', _mon cher_ , by sayin', 'no matter when ah was, or where, or how long ah was away'? Der be sometin' ya not be tellin' Gambit?"

The teacup Harry held was suddenly fascinating. He spun it in his fingers, biting his lip, and nodded once, then looked up to meet Remy's concerned hazel eyes. "You know that I can see the future, but…I have a problem. I keep…falling through time, and I can't control it. It's connected to my powers, and I'm scared that if I let myself keep seeing things, I'll be taken away again—but I _need_ to see things, and I can't just _stop_."

He paused and took a short breath, eyes dropping back to his lap. "Remy, I wanted to stay with you more than anything, but I also wanted you to be happy. There was nothing I could do to change what was going to happen, so I tried to cut ties all at once. I thought…that you and Logan would find each other, and be happy."

Remy sighed and set his coffee down, shifting over to pull Harry into his arms. " _Mon amour_ ," he murmured into the messy black hair, "be ya really t'inkin' Remy be lettin' ya go jus' like dat? O' course ah be lookin' fo' ya! _Je t'aime_. Dat no' be changin', 'Arry. We be findin' a way ta fix dis, _mon ami_ , a 'fore ya disappear on me again."

Strong, calloused hands rubbed soothing circles on the wizard's back, and Harry felt Remy smile against his cheek. "Ya be da one tellin' Nigh'crawler dat Remy be comin'? An' fo' him ta take Remy to ya ta help?"

Harry nodded. "I didn't tell him to, not exactly, but I hinted at the fact that there wasn't anyone at the mansion _yet_ who could help me, and he assumed I was going to the base where they held him before. But…" He sat back, reaching up to touch Remy's face—unchanged, even after all this time. His eyes narrowed. "You said it had been…thirty years? Why…why didn't you age? Even if you were aging slowly…"

"Ah, _mon amour_ , ya ask da easy questions." Remy chuckled and appropriated Harry's hand, bringing it to his lips with a charming grin. "Remy be controllin' kinetic energy— _all_ kinetic energy, but it be easier when it's in Remy's body. Ah heal myself by stimulatin' my cellular activity, or so de doc tells me. An' agin' be jus' ano'er disease, _mon cher_ , 'specially when it keep Remy away from 'is _amour_."

It took quite a bit of effort for Harry to keep from rolling his eyes. Trust Remy to make near-immortality sound simple and practically cheesy. He sighed and shook his head at the Cajun, hiding a smile. "Oh, Remy," he said fondly. "Only you." Then he sobered slightly, and bit his lip. "Why were you coming to the school, anyway? I'm glad you got here before Lady Deathstrike could tear me into little pieces, but why? Were you going to become an X-Man?"

Remy scoffed at that. " _Mon chèri_ , Remy be a t'ief. He not be takin' up wit' de 'eros a' justice unless 'e got a _real_ good reason. But de Professor be sayin' 'e 'an find any mutant, _non_? Remy be plannin' at ask fo' him ta find _you_." He fixed Harry with stern eyes. "Now ya be lettin' de docs 'ere check ya out, hm? Dey be findin' what's wrong wit' your power, and den ya be stayin' wit' Remy."

Knowing that the Cajun wouldn't be swayed on this, Harry nodded and gave in gracefully. "All right." He flicked Remy a swift smile as he slid out of the tight hold and headed for the door. "Thank you for saving my life." He vanished into the hall, and the door swung softly shut behind him.

Remy stared after him for a moment, and then smiled as well, dropping back onto the mattress with a sigh. "Ah never be lettin' ya go again," he repeated softly, before pushing himself back to his feet and following the smaller man.

* * *

"Fascinating!" Dr. Hank McCoy exclaimed, peering at one of his machines.

Harry sat on the hospital bed in front of him, looking uncomfortable and feeling out of sorts after spending the past eight hours in the lab, while Remy and Logan—who had somehow inserted himself into their group after hearing a quick explanation—had each found a portion of wall to hold up and were attempting to looking something other than bored. It didn't help that Dr. McCoy had said that particular word several dozen times in the past ten minutes, and it had lost its impact after the first six repetitions.

"Yes?" Harry asked again, wondering if he would get an answer that was actually in _English_ this time, instead of Scientific.

Hank finally looked up, and his eyes were bright. "It seems that there is a strange element that has fused with your genes, and while it's not the X-gene, it's very, very close! This proves that the X-mutation is absolutely normal, just another step in the evolutionary process!"

"And, Doc?" Logan's voice was a rough growl. "Can ya fix him?"

The doctor's look was quelling. "He's not _sick_. As far as I can tell, the…falling, you call it? Yes, the falling is a defense mechanism built into the mutated genes. It _should_ only activate when your life is in danger, but I believe something has affected it—a sudden introduction foreign energy, maybe, which left it unstable. If you give me enough time, I believe I _can_ create something to counter it, but it won't be for another few days at least."

 _Voldemort's spell_ , Harry realized with a shock, remembering the blinding scarlet impact that had thrown him back into the Time Turners. He hesitated, and then said quietly, "If you knew what had caused the effect, would you be able to create a cure more quickly?"

Hank lit up. "Of course! Then it would be a simple matter of countering and reversing the—"

"A concentrated jet of re energy," Harry interrupted quietly, "One that stops all mental function on contact and puts the victim into a deathlike sleep until the attacker wakes them up. I shielded myself, but I was tired at the time, and I don't know how effective it was."

"Hm." The doctor tapped one blue-furred finger against his lips. "That's very interesting. Red, you say? Hmm…" He ducked behind another bank of computers, already waving them away. "All right, you can go. I've got enough samples for now. But stay near the mansion in case something comes up."

Harry slid off the bed and smiled at Remy and Logan as they approached. "What would you say to getting something to drink? I could use some tea."

Logan glanced between Remy's tight, worried features and Harry's forcibly calm face, and sighed. "Yeah," he said, lifting an eyebrow. "A whiskey sounds good right about now."

" _Oui_ , _mon ami_ ," Remy agreed, sliding one hand through his auburn hair. "Dat be soundin' very good ta Remy, too."

Harry shook his head at both of them and smiled, heading out of the lab. "It's a date, then. Come on."

Remy and Logan exchanged looks, Logan mouthing the word "date" in confusion and Remy raising an eyebrow. Then the Cajun just shrugged and followed, with Logan trailing after him.

* * *

Professor Xavier was reading in his study when the door opened. He didn't look up, quite aware of who stood there, but smiled in welcome nevertheless. "Hello again, Erik."

"Charles, my old friend." Erik took the seat across from him, sliding into the chair with a sigh. He looked away from the telepath, glancing out the window at a sky just darkening into night. "Has Raven been to see you yet?"

Charles looked at him then, eyes calm and gaze even, hiding a trace of pain. "My friend, you know she has not. But I could not—cannot—give her what she needs, so it is reasonable that she would not seek me out."

Magneto sighed and met his tranquil gaze, guilt growing in his features. "You know that I would not have taken her away from you if she had not suggested it. She is your family—"

"Was," Charles corrected gently, closing his book and resting it in his lap. "As I said, I could not be what she needed, and so she went to someone who could. It is not a crime, Erik, and I do not blame her for it."

 _But we left you, just when you needed us both_. The words hung unspoken between them, but Charles didn't need to be the world's most talented mind reader to recognize them. He smiled faintly and reached out, taking Erik's hand in one of his. "Dear friend, what is done is done, and cannot be changed. It doesn't do to dwell on it so much." He laid his book on the desk, then maneuvered the wheelchair over to face the wide window, beckoning for the other mutant to join him.

"There," he said quietly, staring into the west. "Isn't that that most beautiful sunset you've seen in ages?"

Erik's hand gripped Charles's in a light clasp, a soft upturn to his lips that could almost be termed a smile. "Yes," the older man murmured, "I almost think you're right." He hesitated for another moment, and then said tentatively, "Charles…perhaps, someday, we will both arrive at a place where we can see a middle ground. If such a thing is possible…"

Charles smiled, still staring at the riot of colors staining the horizon.

"If that day comes," he agreed softly, "then I will meet you there."

* * *

Remy silently closed the door to Harry's room, leaning back against it and letting out a long breath.

"Tough night?" Logan asked, making him flinch slightly.

One reddish-hazel eye opened to peer at the Canadian mutant, and the Cajun's lips tilted into a mischievous grin. "Eh, Remy be havin' worse. An' you, _mon ami_? Can't sleep?"

Logan shrugged, bracing his shoulders against the wall as he surveyed the other man. "Been thinkin' about Shorty," he said, with a nod towards the darkened room Remy had just left. "Even if he was…taken away like he said, why didn't he just pop back in to see you whenever he was in a time where he could? Why didn't he check the date? He was worried that you were dead, but he wouldn't have had to if he had just read a newspaper."

Remy sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. "'Arry…be not like de rest a' us. 'E been fallin' fo' a long time, ah t'ink, an' 'e couldn't 'o kept comin' back ta me every time. Wouldn't a' been fair ta eit'er of us, in de end. T'ought ah'd be movin' on—wit' _you_ , mind—an' dat ah would fo'get 'bout what we had a' fore. An' de date…would ya want ta keep seein' proof of how ya be alone, if it were bein' you fallin' like dat? Ah wouldn't, and 'Arry feel de same, ah'm t'inkin'."

For a moment, Logan considered that, and then nodded slowly. "Yeah, I can see how that would be." He paused, then asked, "Are you gonna stay here, both of you, once he's fixed? Or are you gonna go back to New Orleans?"

"Dat be up to _chèri_ , hm?" Remy sounded amused. "Ah be goin' anywhere 'e wants ta. 'Ad a fallin' out wit' de T'ieves Guild down der, so dey no' too happy wit' Gambit a' de moment, and ah be a free man."

"This the kind of 'falling out' that leaves bodies behind it, Gumbo?" Logan asked with a snort, raising an eyebrow.

Remy flashed him an unrepentant grin. "De mos' fun kind der be ta have, _mon ami_ , hm? Could a' used dem claws a' yours, t'ough. Got a bit too close a' times, all by Remy's lonesome."

Logan chuckled, a low, rough sound, and crossed the hall to sling an arm around the Cajun's shoulders. "Come on," he said gruffly. "What would ya say to another whiskey?"

"If ya be findin' some bourbon, ah'm all in," Remy agreed, and let the taller mutant draw him down the hall.

* * *

A soft noise woke Harry, and he struggled up to consciousness through a haze of laughing jokers and dancing cards. Blearily, he opened his eyes in a dark room he recognized as his own, in an empty bed that hadn't been empty when he's gone to sleep. But using magic again when he'd kept himself from it and played mutant for so long had left his head achy and stuffed with cotton, and him exhausted, so he supposed that Remy had simply left without him noticing, and was now returning.

"Remy?" he murmured into the darkness, fighting down a yawn.

The soft, nearly inaudible hiss of razor-edged metal sliding through the air was the only warning he got before pain exploded in his stomach, and he gasped. It caught on a bubbling wheeze, shooting agony through him, even as the door flew open and Logan was in the doorway, nostrils flared as though he had caught a strange scent, claws out. Remy was behind him, wide-eyed, his bō staff crackling with energy.

Dimly, Harry shifted his gaze from the two men to meet the pale, empty eyes of Yuriko Oyama, Lady Deathstrike, who stared at him without recognition or emotion. In the back of his mind, Harry heard the echo of Stryker's last command— _Kill him!_ —and realized that she, unlike Kurt, had been under the influence of the drug much longer, so the effects were slower to wear off.

She was simply doing as ordered.

"Harry!"

It was a harsh snarl ripped from Logan's throat, but even as he threw himself forward, the wizard felt the wrenching, whirling pull of the Time Turners, for once acting as they— _a defense mechanism,_ Hank's voice repeated—were supposed to.

He only had time for one last gasping breath as he was harshly torn from one time and sent spinning into another.

* * *


	13. Of Deaths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

Jean was crying softly, but Logan couldn't find it in him to comfort her. Not when Remy was sitting there looking as though his entire world had just crumbled into pieces around him. The Cajun sat next to him on the old sofa in Xavier's office, face settled into bleak lines, one hand gripping Logan's knee tight enough that it should have been painful.

In the end, it was Storm who went to Jean, bending over her with concern written in every line of her face as she rubbed the telepath's back. "Shh," she murmured, and somehow it sounded as though it were directed at everyone in the room. "Hank is a good doctor. Scott will be just fine. Shh."

Logan's hands fisted involuntarily, and he gritted his teeth to keep in a snarl. Lady Deathstrike hadn't just slipped out of the infirmary and up three levels to the guest rooms because she was unguarded—she had dealt with her guard, and now Scott was one step shy of dead on Hank's operating table.

 _The same wound that Shorty got_ , something in his mind whispered. _Only Shorty's not gettin' the best medical care in the country—he's probably bleeding out somewhere, and we can't fucking_ do _anything!_

His snarl almost broke free, but he fought it down. Going feral wouldn't help, not now.

"What do we do?"

Surprisingly, it was Remy who asked, voice bleak beneath the thick Southern drawl, his words nearly clipped when normally they were always slow and lazy, even in a fight.

Xavier steepled his fingers and frowned thoughtfully, and Logan wondered why they were all pretending not to see the way Magneto's hand rested on the Professor's shoulder, the way Xavier subtly leaned into him for comfort. The telepath frowned and carefully shook his head. "I…am not sure there is anything to be done," he said slowly. "Dr. McCoy has notified me of Oracle's powers, and being the way they are, I cannot use Cerebro to find him. As powerful a machine as it may be, I have yet to find a way to look across times." He rubbed at his temples, and Magneto abandoned discretion to lean down and press a gentle kiss to the temple closest him, and then claim one of Xavier's hands, holding it openly. The Professor flicked him a small, grateful smile and looked back at the rest of the X-Men.

"Oracle is clever," Xavier said, and his voice was soothing, composed. "Clever and powerful. He was happy here, and now that he knows the nature of the problem with his genetic mutation, I have no doubt that he will seek to fix it and then return." He turned calm eyes on the weeping telepath across from him, and his gaze softened. "Jean, Scott is strong. He will be fine. There is no need to worry."

Swallowing, Jean managed to choke down the remainder of her tears and nod, her hands coming up to settle on Storm's shoulders in a death grip. "Yes, Professor," she whispered.

Xavier nodded. "Good. Mr. LeBeau…" His gaze switched to Remy, who stiffened subtly, but the telepath just smiled reassuringly. "You should not worry, either. After Scott is stable, Dr. McCoy will continue working on a cure, and it will be available in the future. Doubtless, Oracle will make the connection. Once he can control these temporal shifts, it is certain that he will return to you."

The Cajun's face remained stony, but relief flickered through his eyes, and he nodded a touch gratefully.

Logan remembered Harry's eyes, wide and shocked in a pale face, as Deathstrike tore her claws out of his gut with empty savagery. Remembered the look of distant, unfocused pain as Harry collapsed backward and vanished, leaving only a stark pool of blood on the otherwise pristine sheets.

He hadn't killed Deathstrike, but oh, how he had wanted to.

Harry—Oracle, or whatever else he called himself—had grown on him. The seer was beautiful—not feminine, not fragile, but strong and lean and focused like a cat closing in on its prey. Remy, who tended to ramble when he was drinking, had compared him to lightning in a bell jar, and Logan thought that was rather apt—Harry was like quicksilver and mercury, forever moving, even when at rest. He laughed and talked and _looked_ at whomever he was with as though they were the only other being in the universe, even if he was talking about someone else. It was eerie and unsettling and strange, and Logan relished it more than he had ever thought he could.

Watching the other man disappear like that had torn apart something inside him he hadn't even known had existed before that moment.

Seeing that nothing else was being said, Logan stood up and strode out of the room, fighting down the urge to bellow and slash things into bits. He headed for the training rooms, where at least he could break things in the name of exercise.

If he shut the door a bit harder than normal behind him, no one called him on it.

* * *

Harry woke up, and was surprised that he did.

After so long fighting Voldemort, he was well aware of the healing capabilities of the human body, even aided by magic, and the wound that Lady Deathstrike had been too severe to survive. He _shouldn't_ be waking up, not after that much blood loss, not after that length of time. He frowned and opened his eyes, squinting against the sudden blaze of sunlight.

The grounds of Hogwarts.

The Black Lake.

Dumbledore's tomb.

"Cheery," he commented dryly, scanning his surroundings for any clues as to when he was. The castle looked the same as ever, though, if empty.

"Thank you," a calm voice responded. "I thought it was fitting. After all, this is still one of the places where you are most comfortable, even after…events."

Harry glanced around, to see a nondescript man perched on the edge of the lowest step leading up to the white tomb, his hands clasped and dangling between his knees as he leaned forward. He was utterly unmemorable, the kind of person who could have been anyone or anything, could have disappeared into a crowd without even trying, killed the prime minister and simply vanished. Such invisibility was nearly terrifying.

But his eyes—those were as pale as frost, and a thousand times colder, and stood out like garish slashes of arctic blue against his otherwise painfully ordinary features.

"Events?" Harry asked, and his voice emerged dryer than the Sahara. "Nearly killing a mad Dark Lord three times on the grounds is 'events'?"

That earned him a small, unremarkable smile. "Well, in the larger scheme of things, yes. It was important at the time, but overall…" He shrugged. "Few things can effect _all_ of time. You're one of the few."

Harry's eyes narrowed as he considered this man, who knew too much about him for it to be comfortable, and then widened as he realized that he _knew_ him. Perhaps, had he not been used to falling through time, this would have shocked him more, but as it was, he simply took a deep breath and said quietly, "I have the feeling I should apologize to you on the behalf of my ancestors."

Death smiled and slowly shook his head. "Do not. They were clever—so clever that they thought they could overcome me twice. But they could not. Only one may do that." His pale eyes glittered as he fixed them on Harry.

"The Hallows came back to me," Harry protested, feeling as though he had to say something in his own defense. "I didn't try to keep them together." It was worse than having Dobby wait on him while Hermione was watching—here was the man (being?) who had created the Deathly Hallows and was forced to obey them, speaking to the man who had collected the Hallows (even if it was without meaning to) and used them. The wizard bit his lip to keep from saying anything more foolish.

The nondescript man smiled again, and nodded slowly. "Oh, yes," he murmured. "You gave them up, but it wasn't yet _time_ for you to do so. Therefore, I had them returned, until the correct time came. You have died again, so that time is arrived. And now…now I have a deal to offer you, young Master."

"Yes?" Harry asked warily, wondering if this was smart—or if this was even _real_.

Death chuckled, as though amused by his caution. "As Master of Death—however unwillingly you hold the title—I will bring you back to life nevertheless, though it will perhaps not be what you are expecting. However, the Time Turners in your blood prevent you from living a normal life, malfunctioning as they are. I will repair them and give you control of this new power, for the price of the Wand, the Ring…and your magic."

Harry's first instinct was to refuse, loudly and harshly. But then he hesitated, remembering Remy, who had spent thirty years searching for him; remembering Logan, who had spent all that time without memories or a home or someone who _knew_ of him, in any period but the present. What would they say, if he kept falling? He had once thought they would be happy without him, but they had proved him wrong—proved that they would be far happier _with_ him, no matter what.

Deliberately, Harry licked his lips and then glance up to meet Death's gaze. "You said returning to life wouldn't be what I expected," he noted. "What do you mean?"

Something akin to triumph lit the cold eyes, and Death leaned forward slightly. "Ah, you see, that is my greatest coup. Possession of the Deathly Hallows may give you command over me, but even they cannot command me to break the natural order of things. If I return you to the living world without our deal, you will be reborn, as all souls are, though you will keep your memories of you last life. You will start over from the beginning, just like everyone else."

 _Slytherin_ , Harry thought, and for some reason, he felt like laughing. _What would I say if Malfoy proposed a deal like this?_ He shook his head and snorted, both at the thought and the situation. "That's a rather one-sided deal, isn't it? I'll become just another human, and you'll have two of the three Hallows back, plus my magic."

"But you won't be 'just another human'," Death countered swiftly. "I will leave you the Time Turners and what they give you, so that you will become a mutant, just as your lovers are. And you will go directly back to where you were before, unwounded, instead of being reborn. All of this simply for the return of what was originally my property."

Once, when Harry was brash and young and headstrong, he wouldn't have even _considered_ losing his magic, not for anything—it was what made him who he was, _what_ he was. After falling for so long, though, and using magic sparingly at best, blending in with humans and mutants alike, he knew that family and friends were far more precious.

 _Logan._

 _Remy._

 _You're the ones I choose, over everything._

"All right," Harry said softly. "The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and my magic. In return, you'll repair the Time Turners, leave me their power, and send me back to the mansion?"

"It is a deal." Pale eyes glowed eerily as Death offered one pale, unmemorable hand.

Harry reached out and took it.

Then the world dissolved into darkness once again.

* * *


	14. Of Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

_Choices._

The word echoed in Harry's head, pounding like a metronome.

 _Choices._

 _Tell me, Oracle, what have you chosen?_

"Them," Harry whispered into the darkness. "I chose them."

Bright eyes glittered, as pale as frost and a thousand times colder, garish slashes of arctic blue in the nothingness around Harry. "Well," the metronome voice said, civil and damnably polite. "That's not all you chose."

And then reality returned with a jarring snap, and Harry was thrown to the hard tiles in a jumble of limbs and bruises. He groaned, one hand rising to clutch at his head where it had impacted with the floor, the other rising to secure glasses that he wasn't wearing. "Ouch," he muttered disgustedly. "Ow."

"'Arry?" another voice—this one thankfully warm with Louisiana heat and a liquid-molasses drawl—whispered, and Harry suddenly found himself pressed hard against a firm chest, breathing in the smell of chicory that clung to Remy, even after so long living outside of New Orleans. Hands were all over him, stroking over exposed skin and down limbs, checking for wounds and anything that might have been wrong. "'Arry, _mon chèri_ , where'd ya go? When'd ya go? Ya be comin' back in one piece, den? No' hurt? An'—"

"Give it a rest, Gumbo," Logan huffed, plucking Harry from the Cajun's grasp and turning him for a look of his own. Then, without warning, Harry found himself gripped in another fierce hug, this one smelling of pine and snow, prickly from Logan's sideburns and seemingly permanent five-o'clock shadow. Rough hands gripped his shoulders, drawing him back, and then Harry was subjected to another intense scrutiny. "Ya all right there, Shorty?"

Harry blinked at the blurry images of the two of them, wearing identical expressions of concern, and chuckled, reaching out to take Remy's hand and putting his other on top of Logan's. They were warm, so warm after the empty darkness and the strangeness of Death's presence. He cherished them being there, being who they were—Logan with his gruff, blustery caring, Remy with his gentle, enveloping comfort.

 _A life for a life,_ that relentless voice whispered in his head. _I brought you back, but you had to choose to give up your life as a wizard in return. Death is, above all else, fair and even._

Choices again. Harry didn't understand the reiteration. What more was there to say? No matter how great a part of his life magic had been, he would make the same choice a thousand times, if asked. Because what he had now, what he had gained when he had been torn from his old life, was infinitely more precious than the ability to cast spells and change pincushions into hedgehogs.

"I love you," he whispered to the two men in front of him. "I love you, Logan, Remy. I love you both so much."

In an instant, he found him pressed between them as they both hugged him, hard enough to steal his breath. " _Cher_ ," Remy whispered, in a voice that was thicker than normal, as if he were fighting back tears. " _Mon chèri,_ don' ya ever be doin' dat again. Ah love ya too much ta take dat, _mon amour_. Ya can' be leavin' Remy behind like dat, _oui_?"

"The Swamp Rat's right," Logan growled, tugging reprovingly on Harry's braid. "We're not letting you go till we get our money's worth out of you—and we're talkin' years here, Shorty." Then his voice gentled, and he murmured a brief, "Love you, too," into Harry's ear.

Something glinted, and suddenly a pair of glasses was sliding onto Harry's nose. He blinked, adjusting to the change in focus, and smiled thankfully at Remy.

"Contacts might be better, _cher_ ," the Cajun said in amusement. "Den ya no' be leavin' dem all o'er de place when ya need 'em, hm?" He tapped a finger on the tip of Harry's nose, then kissed hi forehead and drew back, still smiling. "Come on, den. We be telling de Professor an' de ot'ers dat ya be returnin' ta us."

Harry glanced around. They were in his and Remy's room, where the attack had originally happened. _You will go directly back to where you were before_ , Death had said, and he had kept his part of the bargain. So had Harry, even if it had been involuntary. There was an ache in his chest, a gnawing emptiness that gaped wide, like a void where an integral part of his _self_ should have been. His magic was gone, cut off like the amputation of essential limb. It hurt, and he suspected it always would to some degree. But he had picked Remy and Logan, and he didn't regret it. Living without them would hurt a thousand times more.

Already, if he concentrated, Harry could feel the absence of the Elder Wand along his leg, the Resurrection Stone's disappearance from the chain around his neck. He mourned them, just a little, but—

He blinked in sudden realization, even as Remy and Logan pulled him out of the room. The Cloak was still in his pocket, where it ever was, and Death hadn't asked for it back.

 _Why?_ he wondered helplessly. _Why take my magic and not the third Hallow? Was that a part of the choice you keep talking about?_ The Cloak was his father's, his last connection to his family now that he had been cast out into time. He wouldn't have wanted to lose it, but—

A sound almost like a chuckle filled Harry' ears, and suddenly that was all he could hear, while darkness and arctic eyes filled his vision. _Choices, young Master, didn't I tell you that? I've been keeping track. Two choices that reflect what I am looking for—and you've made them so easily._

 _One more choice, and our little game will be done._

 _But now, I will fulfill our bargain._

And then Harry could _feel_ each of the Time Turners in his blood, every microscopic grain of sand or shard of glass, and they _wrenched_ , as though pulled on by some great force.

It was agonizing, terrifying, maddening, and more excruciating than the Cruciatus Curse.

Harry screamed, and screamed, and couldn't stop.

* * *

"Fascinating!" Dr. Hank McCoy exclaimed, peering at one of his machines.

Logan fought down the urge to bring out his claws and have a lengthy, in-depth discussion with the good doctor about when the word "fascinating" was not appropriate.

First and foremost were the times when it was _Harry_ lying on the infirmary bed, twitching and trembling in pain even though he was unconscious.

In a valiant show of self-restraint, Remy looked up from his careful study of the mutant on the bed and limited his voice to only a slight growl as he asked, "What be fascinatin', doc? Dat 'Arry be in dis much pain, or dat we can' do anyt'in' abou' it?"

For his part, Dr. McCoy looked slightly sheepish as he scratched the back of his head. "Ah, well, I meant the fact that his genes are _repairing_ themselves. It shouldn't be possible, but…they seem to be _changing_ without the use of any catalyst. It's…incredible. The strange element that had fused with his genes is being restored to its original state, as it must have been before the foreign energy corrupted it, and the trigger of the defense mechanism is becoming one that will respond to conscious thought—Oracle's control, in this case."

Logan and Remy traded glances, both thinking the same thing—if Harry had gotten the cure and been well enough to come back to them, why was it only starting to affect him now? How had he been _able_ to get back in the first place?

"How much longer, Hank?" Logan asked tersely, watching as Harry whimpered softly, curling in on himself as though he could escape the pain that way. He brushed a gentle hand over the smaller man's forehead, pushing some of his long hair out of the way.

McCoy sighed and leaned over the machine, then shook his head. "I can't say. The process seems to run in jumps and sudden starts. It could be another hour, or it could be another three days. There's no way to tell."

Remy slumped down in a chair near the bed, and then gave Logan a slightly grim smile. "Well, par'ner?" he drawled. "Sit dem buns down, 'less ya got mo' important places ta be. Remy be t'inkin' we in fo' a long wait."

With a snort, Logan sat on the floor next to him and leaned back against the wall. "Yeah," he muttered, half disgusted and half amused. "Well, since when has Shorty ever made anything easy?"

"Ah, _mon ami_ , but lovin' 'im be de easiest t'ing Remy ever done," the Cajun said with a sad smile. "E'en after t'irty years, Remy still be lovin' 'im like de day we met."

Logan thought about the morning on the rooftop, watching the sun come up and kissing until they were breathless and laughing, and agreed. Loving Harry was very, very easy indeed.

* * *

"They're worried, you know," Death pointed out calmly.

Harry, watching his own body shake with spasms that he could _feel_ , even though he wasn't present in it, rolled his eyes. "Yes, _obviously_ ," he hissed. "And you could have _warned_ me what it would feel like, couldn't you? At least so I could have warned _them_?"

Death simply smiled his bland, meaningless smile and focused on Logan, who had fallen asleep against the wall. Remy was almost asleep, as well, eyes heavy-lidded, one hand curled in Logan's thick hair. The being took in the picture they made, and then said quietly, "Tell me, Harry James Potter—do you know what choices you have made that have altered the very course of time?"

Harry blinked, thrown by the question, and rocked back on his heels with a thoughtful frown. "Er…When I saved Pettigrew's life in third year?" At Death's nod, he ventured, "Seventh year, facing Voldemort alone. And, I guess…giving up the Hallows the first time?"

"Oh, yes," Death murmured, pale eyes all but glowing with an eerie light. "And your ancestors' faults? Do you know those?" He paused for a beat before smiling slightly. "Ignotus was kind, a trait you have inherited. He wanted nothing more than to live a good life and die of old age, and passed my Cloak on to his son, preserving the lives of his descendants—as you preserved Pettigrew's life, even when he did not deserve it. That was not a fault, but the other brothers, well…"

Death's smile took on a razor edge, sharp enough to cut. "Cadmus was arrogant, thinking to cheat death again and again without paying a price. But you were humble, submitting to your fate when you faced Voldemort on the behalf of an entire world that had never been overly accepting of you. And where Antioch was greedy, you surrendered three of the most powerful items ever created, because you did not want their power." He chuckled, seeming genuinely amused, and his eyes glowed. "Oh, young Master, you did that not just once, but twice." Reaching out, he tapped Harry gently on the forehead with one long, pale finger. "Tell me, did you really think that all one had to do to become Master of Death was collect three things? No, young Master, it is far more complicated than that."

"Choices," Harry whispered, remembering Death's words as he fell through the darkness. "I had to choose differently than the two brothers. You mean…"

Death laughed outright, softly, still nondescript but also somehow more vivid, as though he was finally starting to come into focus. "Yes, young Master, and you did—twice over. Kindness you proved you possessed, saving the life of one who had betrayed you. Arrogance you overcame, giving up what made you great in order to return to those you love. And greed you rose above when you gladly separated the Deathly Hallows, not just once, but twice."

Harry knew he shouldn't be surprised that Death spoke in riddles, but standing there, watching the two men he loved more than anything suffer because _he_ was in pain, had served to undermine all of the patience he had managed to gain while falling through time. Irritably, he turned on the being beside him. "And? What does this all mean? Are you going to give me a pat on the head and tell me I'm a good boy? Let me go back and wake up? What?"

Death simply smiled at him, flicking one hand. "Well, young Master, you will see."

Again, Harry felt that strange, sharp wrenching, and suddenly he was back in his body, eyes flying open as he bolted upright, gasping for breath as the pain in every inch of him made itself known. "Ow," he groaned, stiffening as he tried not to move any more than was absolutely necessary to remain living. Even his _eyelids_ hurt.

But, in his blood, the Time Turners were quiet.

More than quiet.

They were _waiting_ for a _command_.

For the very first time, he was in _control_.

He looked back at where Death had been standing, seeing only a flicker of arctic blue to mark the being's presence. Harry nodded once, just slightly, and Death smiled at him again, somehow simultaneously shark-like and congratulatory.

 _Young Master_.

It was just a whisper, but Harry froze, finally understanding the implications of Death _continuing_ to call him that. One hand flew to the chain around his neck, finding the heavy weight of the Resurrection Stone against his collarbone. It flickered with warmth, as though welcoming the touch, and Harry closed his eyes, reaching inside of himself for the wellspring of power that had been his only comfort in the endless ages of falling.

His magic welled up beneath the touch, diminished but still present, and he wondered wildly if Death had made a mistake, forgetting to take it.

A soft chuckle cut off that thought before it could really form, and a cold, ghostly touch passed over his brow. _No mistake_ , Death assured him. _It will be lesser, because it is what maintains the Time Turners' powers in your blood. They are just like any spell, that way. But you have your magic, and your lovers, and I cannot think of a better Master of Death than someone who does not what to be._

 _You chose, Harry James Potter. You simply did not know_ what _you chose._

Harry would have laughed, if he had had the breath, because really—that was typical. _Like the philosopher's stone,_ he thought wryly, _and looking into the Mirror of Erised. Only those who want to_ find _, not_ use _. I suppose school_ did _teach me quite a bit, in the end._

He didn't look back, knowing Death had already vanished. Instead, he slid off the bed, wincing at the pain that sparked through his nerve endings with the movement, and went to his knees in front of Logan and Remy. Resting his head on Remy's knee, he reached out and caught Logan's hand in his, twining their fingers together with a smile as Remy and Logan's eyes opened.

"Sorry," he told them softly, but he was still smiling. "It won't happen again, I promise. Everything…everything has turned out right."

* * *

.

 _Reactions again? This scene with Death is what inspired me to write the whole story, so this was planned from the beginning (the Tale of the Three Brothers has always fascinated me), but I'd love to know what people thought of this take on being Master of Death._


	15. Of Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _  
> **Disclaimer**   
> _   
> _: Even if they were mine (which neither is), I'd probably just keep writing fan fiction anyway._

Things had not ended with those words. The world had not suddenly become a peaceful place because love was given and returned. Nevertheless, it did seem just that little bit brighter, a tiny bit more bearable no matter what horrors occurred.

Professor Xavier confronted the President with information on what Stryker had been doing. Mystique continued as Senator Kelly, and the Brotherhood seemed to sink back into the darkness. They were still present, still vigilantes, but had scaled back their ways of doing things to include less killing. And if anyone noticed Magneto and Professor Xavier on long walks around the grounds of the mansion, it was viewed with a smile and politely not mentioned.

Harry, as Oracle, stayed at the school.

As did Logan.

As did Remy.

It was hardly as simple as that, but it wasn't really that much more complicated, either. The rest of the X-Men greeted Harry's return with mixed shock and delight, and Oracle's newfound control with equal happiness. Scott recovered, as did Lady Deathstrike—who was, really, Lady Deathstrike no longer. Instead, Yuriko Oyama took her leave of the mansion to return home to Japan, free of all the serum's effects.

Harry watched her go, standing at a window overlooking the drive as she slid into her taxi and pulled the door shut behind her. Remy stood beside him, also watching—but he was watching the wizard, seeing the faraway look in his eyes as he rested his hand against the glass. It was a look Remy was familiar with, one Harry only took on when he was immersed in possibilities, sifting through _might-be_ s as quickly as Remy would shuffle through a pack of cards.

After a moment, the dark-haired man blinked and looked away from the fading dust cloud, and smiled at Remy as Logan came up behind them.

"We'll see her again," he said, and there was an undercurrent of confidence in his voice that had always been absent before. "This isn't the last time we'll meet."

"As friends or enemies?" Logan asked warily, eyeing Harry. He was good at reading what the seer _didn't_ say.

Harry just smiled and didn't answer.

Remy shook his head at both of them, content to let the future rest where it was, unquestioned and uncertain. He picked up Harry's hand and reached out to seize Logan's arm, then tugged gently. "Come, _mon chèri, mon loup_ ," he said with a smile. "We be off ta bed now, hm?"

Harry smiled at him in return, taking Logan's free hand in his own. "All right," he agreed, and there was peace in his eyes. "To bed, then."

* * *

They all shared one bed, tangled together in a knot of limbs and sheets most nights, because the touch of skin on skin was a magic Harry never could have recreated with a wand. Even when they did more than sleep, it was together, starting slowly, with light touches and butterfly kisses that gradually turned heavier and hotter as hands began to wander.

Harry loved it, loved to touch and be touched in return. Sparks leapt between the three of them, sharing heat that left them breathless. He ended up in the middle, as often happened, with Logan behind him and Remy in front, both of them sharing kisses with him and with each other as the heat between them built. Harry sighed and shuddered as he kissed Remy, who cradled the wizard against his chest as Logan prepared the smaller man. There was no hurry, only soft touches and burning kisses, a building fire that was slowly mounting into a true blaze. Harry twisted and gasped through the coiling heat, rocking forward against Remy and back against Logan, caught between them in a way he had been since the very first time he saw them both together.

" _Mon amant magnifique_ ," Remy whispered, Logan drawing back as he moved carefully between Harry's spread legs, kissing him softly as he slid forward. Harry clung to Remy as he was filled, gasping softly and letting his head fall back against the mattress, eyes fluttering shut.

The room was hot, the air tingling as the shadowy silence was undermined by soft grunts and cries, the bodies on the bed twining and separating and coming together. Logan stroked Harry's hair, and the wizard gasped for breath as the heat crested, rising over them like a breaking wave.

Harry shuddered as Remy withdrew and then turned to Logan, who was watching him with eyes that glittered with something feral.

"Be ya sure, _mon amour_?" the Cajun murmured, leaning over to kiss first Logan, then the wizard softly.

"Don't want to hurt you," Logan agreed gruffly, though there was still heat in his eyes.

In answer, Harry pulled Logan down and slid over him, straddling his hips.

Logan looked up at Harry, his dark eyes burning, and said in a low growl, "Go on, Kit."

The pet name in that husky voice sent shivers down Harry's spine, and he moved down the bigger mutant's body slightly, rising up on his knees above him. Harry's touch, as he positioned Logan under him, made the man hiss and close his eyes, and Harry smiled slightly even as the pressure against his most sensitive places, still sparking with sensation from Remy, shattered all lucid thought. Sinking down, he gasped as the wide head pushed past his entrance and then slid all the way in. Logan buried himself to the hilt, and the wizard was left keening and trembling, body shaking as he fought not to collapse over the mutant from the force of the dark pleasure snaking up his spine. Logan was big, nearly bigger than he could take, pressing against places that were still raw and over-sensitized, and it nearly drove him insane with sensation.

Logan's large, lean hands settled on his hips, and he held Harry in place as he bucked upwards, driving deeper than should have been physically possibly. Pleasure exploded along Harry's nerve endings, so bright and powerful and overwhelming that the force of it stole his breath, leaving him only enough air to gasp out Logan's name.

Remy's wicked fingers curled around the wizard's erection, pulling sharply, and he came undone with a cry, convulsing in pleasure. Logan gritted his teeth and threw his head back, arching his hips and suddenly deep enough inside Harry that he could nearly feel him in his heart, and came with a fierce growl.

Harry collapsed on top of him, still shaking from aftershocks, and strong arms came up and wrap around him, bearing him down to the mattress. He relaxed into the embrace with a sigh as Remy leaned over them again, kissing Harry as though he would devour him. Logan came up on one elbow to meet him, and they kissed over Harry's head, beautiful and primal enough to make his breath catch in his throat again. He chuckled and raised his hands to trace their cheeks, smiling when they drew apart and looked down at him.

"I love you both," he said, and was full of wonder and joy and something very like glee, which he hadn't felt in an age. "So very, very much."

Remy chuckled and leaned down to kiss him again. " _Mon loup et mon voyant_ ," he murmured as he drew back, settling behind the wizard and tangling their legs together, even as Logan let his arm rest over both of the other men, drawing them even closer. "Be ya seein' a happy future fo' us, _mon chèri_?"

"The happiest," Harry confirmed, closing his eyes and simply basking in the shared warmth and love between the three of them. "In every way."

Logan chuckled and drew the sheets up over them, then dropped his head back to the pillow. "Do ya even have to ask, Gumbo?"

Remy smiled in the darkness, looking over them, and then settled on his own pillow. " _Non_ , ah be guessin' not. _Faites de beaux rêves, mes amours._ "

"Sweet dreams," Harry echoed, though he knew, for the first time in his life, that dreams couldn't be any sweeter than reality.

* * *

It was just before dawn when Harry slid carefully out from between his lovers and padded to the living room part of their quarters. He settled on the wide window seat, staring out at the clouds that were already lightening. Soon, sunlight would spread over the trees and fields, awakening the inhabitants of the mansion, and they would go back to finding mutants, helping children who had been kicked out of their homes or run away, teaching them how to survive in a world that didn't want them. Harry enjoyed teaching, loved being able to _see_ when people would need him or be in trouble, even more accurately that Cerebro could. It satisfied his hero complex, and left him with a feeling of absolute contentment.

Even if, somehow, someday, things failed to work out with Logan or Remy or both, Harry suspected that he would remain at Xavier's School anyway, because the good he could do here was a hundred times what he could do back in his old life. After all, Voldemort had only been one man—powerful and with many followers, yes, but still only one man. Here, with the mutants, a vast part of humanity itself was against them, and he couldn't bear to walk away from such a situation.

A soft tap at the glass drew him out of his thoughts, and he blinked, staring at the tawny owl that sat on the edge of the windowsill, surveying him with a haughty expression. Harry hesitated for a brief moment, then opened the window and let the bird in. It barely paused long enough to drop the letter in his lap before it was gone again, winging its way through the false dawn.

 _No reply expected_ , Harry realized, running his fingers over the thick, creamy parchment that bore his name in red ink. He recognized the neat hand, and the seal on the wax, and wondered why Hermione was sending him letters from Hogwarts. Carefully, he slit it open with a fingernail and read what his friend had written.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. In fact, I hope this letter finds you at all. It's a complete shot in the dark—and quit rolling you eyes at me, Mr. Potter! I know this is hardly the first shot in the dark we've ever taken. Nevertheless, I get the feeling that you're out there somewhere, and doubtless still saving people. You've been declared missing here, and a hero, though you probably could have guessed that on your own._

 _So much has happened since you left. My swearing-in as Minister of Magic is tomorrow, and Ron's playing for the Chudley Cannons—says they actually have a shot at the Cup, this year. But I'm sure you'd rather hear about our progress in the areas of equal rights for all beings, right? Well, to start with…_

Harry smiled and settled down amongst the cushions as he read through Hermione's slightly disjointed ramblings. He might not write back—but then again, he might do just that. After so long falling, he was a different person, no longer the boy they remembered. But, even so, they weren't the same people he had known, either. Maybe…

"Minister, hm, Hermione?" he murmured, turning his gaze to the world outside as the sun broke over the horizon. "You always were trying to change the world."

Harry glanced back down at the parchment, then towards the bedroom, where the first sounds of stirring were emerging. With a smile, he folded the letter and placed it on the table, then headed for the doorway.

"Remy, Logan?" he called softly, drawing their gazes towards him. Smiling at them, he beckoned them towards the kitchen, where the smell of chicory coffee was beginning to permeate the air. "Would you come here for a bit? I have something I've been meaning to tell you."

Outside, the sun cleared the distant hills, flooding the room with light, and Harry turned, taking the first step into a new life.

* * *

 **~Fin~**

* * *


End file.
